I recently got hit on at the store while shopping after work (11:30pm). The guy had to be between 18-22? (looked like a baby to me). He was tall and thin with a faux-hawk. Almost skater/emo (is emo still a thing?) looking. Complete with ear gauges and extremely tight pants. And he had NO idea what he was walking himself into. It’s a good thing for me that you can’t see my crazy on the outside, because it was thoroughly entertaining for me. At first, anyways. I’m pretty sure he walked away more confused than the time his mom tried explaining to him that “skinny jeans” are for teenage girls and anorexic super models…
He walked by the aisle I was in a few times before approaching me. His awe inspiring opening line: “So, uhh… You doing some late night shopping?”
Me: No. Actually I’m looking for the polar bears.
Him: What?
Me: The polar bears. Don’t you watch The Discovery Channel? They’ve been coming down from Alaska and hiding inside of Wal-Mart stores all day. Then around midnight, they come out and do this awesome dance with ribbons and junk. I need autographs. Err… Paw prints. Or SOMETHING! I heard they were in this area right now and this is too good to pass up.
Him: (looking extremely confused) “What?”
Me: Yes. I’m doing some late night shopping.
Him: Right on. What are you getting?
I look down in my arms at the shampoo and body wash. “Some shower stuff.”
Him: Oh. That’s cool. So… You gonna go home and take a shower?
Me: Probably not. I’ve already showered this month. I usually only do it after my period because my sweat isn’t very potent then.
Him: What do you mean, potent? Like, smelly?
Me: No. I mean like magic. That time of the month most of the magic I secrete drains out in the blood, so harvesting my sweat then is pretty pointless. Nobody buys that anymore. That’s when I take a shower. To wash away the useless sweat so I don’t taint “muh goods”.
Him: Oh. That’s pretty cool. I didn’t know people could sweat magic… How does that work?
Me: Well, first of all, it won’t work for you. I’m 230 years old. I what some people call “a witch”. My tears are stronger, but I don’t have a soul so I can’t cry.
Him: What happened to your soul?
Me: I sold it back in 1852 for a dress and a cheeseburger.
Him: Wow. Crazy.
Me: Only a little bit. But it’s mostly harmless unless you’re standing between me and a midget.
Him: What?
Me: Never mind. I’m not really a witch. I’m just getting some pull-ups for my daughter on my way home from work.
Him: Oh. So… uhh… you wanna hang out sometime or something?
Are you freaking kidding me?!? Is this guy really for real? Is this what the future looks like? If they’ve gotten this much stupider since I was his age – what the hell hope is there for my two daughters?!? I’ll have to have step-dad teach them to like boobs, I guess. I will slap those girls if they ever bring something like this guy home…
Me: That’s really sweet of you, but I’m not really looking for new friends right now.
Him: Why is that?
Me: Because between my job, three kids, a dog, a cat, a chinchilla, a boyfriend, and all the friends I already have that I don’t keep in touch with enough as it is – I really don’t have time for SANITY. Let alone for you.
Him: So, I can’t buy you a coffee or something sometime?
Yup. This guy is for real. He really is that dumb! I have to make it stop before my head explodes. I can tell that my ramblings are being completely wasted on this stranger. I would be better off having this conversation with a goat. At least I could pretend that the goat was saying something awesome.
Me: No. But thank you.
Him: Are you sure? I’m buying…
I glare at him like it’s Christmas eve and this guy just grabbed the last Hello Kitty anything on the shelf.
“I think I’m good.”, I say while rolling my eyes, hoping that he will sense my lack of interest and avoid getting himself stabbed with my car keys by getting the hell out of my bubble.
FINALLY! It’s over. He walks away. I never mind getting an opportunity to mess with someone’s head a little bit, but I like them to have an I.Q. of more than 7. Or at least a sense of humor.
And then it happens. He stops. Turns around. And says “So, what about the polar bears?”
Oh, you poor little moron… “There are no polar bears, darling.”
Him: looking confused, yet again: Oh…
It. Was. Amazing!
Things like this are the reason I go shopping at night… Things like this also make me wish that I were somewhat religious so that I could pray for my daughters to find something “not that guy”.
Just wow.
So, what about you? What’s the most ridiculous way someone has tried to pick you up at random?
Oh my gosh. . . I hope every word of this is true. Hahaha! I never get hit on, but I like to think it’s because I consciously think to myself “look big and scary with man hands and a nasty glare” any time I’m out past dusk. It’s one of my special skillz.
Fortunately, all of this really happened. (I stopped shopping to put the conversation in my phone. It was that awesome.) I usually try to just observe. I LOVE people watching. Late night shopping and amusement parks are great places for that. I’ll have to try the “look big and scary with man hands” thing sometime. That sounds fun! Except I may have to tweak it to something like “look small and scary with rabies” because my hands look more like something you would see on a talk show episode titled “The World’s Fattest Midget”.
What was wrong with that guy!!! Wow, that really concerns me…the future of humanity and all. I’m going to assume that was an isolated incidence of a person and nobody else like this exists on the planet – I hope.
I would like to think that, too. Especially because I have two girls that I love very much and I don’t want to go to prison in a few years when my oldest starts dating. I’m pretty convinced that I would not make a good prisoner.
People like this guy are why I’m glad the store I work at closes at midnight. I fear for my poor bretheren who work in the 24 hour Wal-Marts. But at least I get the polar bears all to myself!
Kind of makes you think about those old Coca-Cola commercials around Christmas, huh?
You have a chinchilla!!! GAH!
So you know that 13-lined ground squirrel I illegally rescued (you may have missed that part in my 2-million-word post on how great I am for winning an award)? Yeah, I named him Chico. Because he was very small. I wanted to get two chinchillas so that when Chico grew a bit, he could be in a band. It was going to be a mariachi band with only three members and they were going to be Chico and the Chincilladas! HOW AWESOME WOULD THAT HAVE BEEN?
It didn’t work out, though, because chinchillas are expensive. Also, I couldn’t find little guitars or maracas that still sounded good once they’d been shrunken down to rodent size.
*giggle-pee!*
That would have been SUPER AWESOME! My chinchilla was free (hence me having a chinchilla) and he doesn’t cost much to maintain. His name is Gizmo. Like the Gremlin. Because you can’t get them wet… I am currently in the process of getting him to sit on the dog’s back. It’s been slow going, as he was adopted and is a little skittish around other people and animals still, but someday, I hope it will happen. I want to dress Gizmo like a cowboy and get a saddle for the dog.
I can imagine that the acoustics of a guitar would suffer after a major shrinkage like that. I mean, we all know how well George Costanza handled it, right? The instruments are too busy yelling “there was shrinkage!” down the hall to bother playing proper music anymore.
It’s a sad, sad day for tiny guitars…
Hmm. Gizmo is a really good name for a chinchilada. I was going to name mine “Chicken” and “Cheese” because I felt I had to keep the CH thing going.
And yes. Shrunken guitars totally = George Costanza issues. Spot ON.