So I've just seen "Saving Private Ryan," in which the medic, Wade, laments that he didn't spend enough time with his mom. He then proceeds to get shot the next day, and I'm thinking, wow, I've been with my friends all summer, what if I get drafted tomorrow and proceed to get shot, and they don't even bother to make a movie about it?
That would suck.
So I decide to buy sunglasses at the Sunglass Hut with my mom. Now I have this inferiority complex towards trendy shades (heh heh, I may not be trendy, but I'm up with the trendy word for sunglasses), because I feel like a poser when wearing them, so I always end up buying ugly ones that I "lose" within the next hour.
I'm determined to suck it up and buy chic duds, but I'm walking in there with my mom, which is instant points off.
"Recover the points! Recover the points!" I think. I decided that the way to go would be to walk in and wow the salespeople (preferably saleswomen) with my suaveness and have them suggest a chic pair of glasses, in which case I wouldn't be a poser (since my coolness would have been verified by paid experts).
So I open the door to the small store and the two salesgirls' eyes shift immediately to my mom behind me. But hey, I'd rather be not as cool and have a shot at having a movie made about me than be cool, drafted, shot and movie-less, so "Screw them," I think, you know?
So I'm in there, I'm pointing to the right pairs, asking the right questions, throwin' out the lame joke every now and then, I'm bustin' the classic Dutta move. And then, out of nowhere, my little sister has to go to the bathroom (oh, I forgot to tell you, I have a little sister).
Well, my mom leaves to go to the next store with my sister, and I suddenly realize that I have no money! But no problem, I think, my mom will be here in a while. Let me just keep asking questions.
But come on, my mom just ain't comin', and my questions are getting stale, and to top it all off, this guy in baggy pants who some girls might deem "hot" strolls in. My salesgirl leaves me!
Can you believe that? After all that hard work at the relationship, she just stands me up right then and there! I couldn't believe it! So I'm panicking here, and I just can't stand in there anymore like a freak -- I've been in there for a half an hour.
So I fling the door open and walk outside and sit on the bench. I look up, and I see trouble -- there's this girl around my age reading a book on the bench across from me. Now I have no problem with girls, but this is one of those people who aren't good-looking but think they are.
You know, she's wearing the tight pants, heavy makeup, the chic shades, the whole deal. And these are the people who think you're a loser if you look at all interested.
So I gotta avoid eye contact. I can't look across from me. I'm sitting here, and I'm forced by this blonde Fascist to pretend like I'm interested in the tree behind me. I mean, Christ, we won the darn war, what the hell are Fascists doing still running around?
So finally, when I have this huge crick in the neck, my mom shows up, and it turns out my sister has loose bowels. We go home, and I'm stuck with having to go to the drug store and buying some anti-loose bowel drug.
Now there are just some things which I can't buy, you know, the things which causes the twinkle in the clerk's eye.
Like condoms, for example. The clerk looks at you (not that I've ever bought condoms -- I don't believe in safe sex) and implicitly says, "hell yeah, baby, you gettin' it on!"
But antidiarrheal drugs are even worse. This stupid clerk looks at me and says, "Sorry buddy, hope it works out." What the hell? I ain't got no diarrhea. Why have clerks always got to assume that just because I'm buying the drug that I have the ailment? What, so if I buy maxi-pads, then I'm having my period?
Yeah, so my little attempt to be nice just backfired. I have no sunglasses, my pool of possible girlfriends has just shrunk by yet another three (as the pool gets smaller and smaller, every single loss hurts just that much more), and a store clerk thinks I'm having some kind of trans-sexual period.
Moral of the story: Don't listen to WWII army medics; they're doctors who just want to make a quick buck by curing your virtual diarrhea.
