Tales in Hot Pink is a semi-weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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V-Day
My left eye is twitching. I feel like I'm squeezing two cold, damp sponges under either arm. I think I've been talking to myself, running through the mall like an escaped lunatic trying to catch the bus before it pulls away from the stop in front of the asylum. I have no idea what to get her. I know I'm supposed to get her jewelry, I know that's what she expects, but no one's buying my book, so jewelry is out. I know I'm supposed to take her out to dinner, too, but once again…in spite of the fact that it's a great read and can also be used to steady shaky furniture, no one's buying my book. I have three minutes, I realize, before I'm expected home bearing gifts. I stumble into the nearest store and find myself face to face with a grinning salesman. He is wearing a purple shirt and a pink pastel tie. I believe his pants are green plaid, but I'm too frazzled to notice. "Can I help you, sir?" he smiles effusively. His hair is jet black and glistening with oil. I can see my reflection in it. "Valentine's Day," I gasp. "Need present." "You've come to the right place," he smiles. His calmness is contagious. I feel myself relax, even though there's more than enough flammable liquid in his scalp to send us both to the burn unit if I so much as blink quickly. "I have?" I ask, shocked by my luck. "Certainly," he says. He nods for me to follow him to the sales counter. I do. He reaches under the counter and gently places a wicker basket filled with straw and brightly wrapped gift products in front of me. "Looks good," I say, fumbling my wallet out of my pocket. "I'll take one. How much and what is it?" "Cheese products, sir," he says proudly. "The finest in the land." "Cheese," I say, a little disappointed. "Yes, sir," he says, still beaming with pride. "The finest in the land," he says again. I pause, wallet in hand. He senses my hesitation. "Everyone loves cheese," he tells me. He lifts the wicker basket up and holds it under my nose. "Smell," he suggests. I do. I try to think of something nice to say. I'm about to tell him it smells good, but I realize that would be a lie. "Smells like feet," I say. He nods, as if that's exactly what he expected me to say. "Most of these are French cheeses," he says, taking a deep sniff of his own. "So this actually smells like French feet." He inhales again. He has a faraway look in his eye. "Enchanting, lovely, French feet, wrapped in boots, or stockings, or even…" he raises his eyebrows devilishly, "Slippers. Very sexy, wouldn't you agree?" I'm torn. I need it to be sexy. I only have two minutes. "I suppose," I agree uncertainly. I peer into the basket. "What exactly is Summer Sausage?" "It is sausage," the salesman says fondly, "manufactured in the summertime." "What's the advantage of that?" I ask. "There is nothing more delicious than sausage aged to perfection under a hot August sun," he tells me. "I'm sure you'll agree." "It doesn't need to be refrigerated?" I ask. "No," he grins. "Mysterious, wouldn't you agree? Meat that doesn't need to be refrigerated?" "Very mysterious," I agree. "There's something magical about it," he says, trying to display the basket in a way that will best catch the lights that buzz overhead. "Something…" he searches for the word, "Romantic." I study his face. Is he lying to me? Does everyone really love cheese? Will unrefrigerated meat products intrigue her? Are stinky French feet really sexy? The salesman's eyes twinkle. The red wax on a wheel of Wisconsin cheddar reminds me of a big Valentine's Day heart. The second hand on my watch continues to drift inexorably towards the moment when I'll find myself locked out of my house and replaced with someone who shops for Valentine's Day in November. "When you gift wrap it," I say, "Be sure to use red foil." "I wouldn't consider using anything else," the salesman smiles graciously, and whisks the basket off to the back room for wrapping. |
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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