The Day-After-Christmas Day Massacre

Christmas is over.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually sad to see it go.  Granted, it snuck up on me like a ninja in bunny slippers. But I think I may be suffering a little of the post-Christmas blahs.  Maybe it’s because I didn’t experience enough alcohol-induced holiday cheer.  Maybe it’s because I didn’t get a bright, shiny BMW under the tree (does ANYONE ever get a new car under the tree?  And how much do they charge for those big-assed bows?).  A better explanation could be that I have the chore of taking down the holiday decorations staring me right in the puss.

WHO KNOWS!? 

All I know is I’m a little blah.  And to top it off, I thought I could remedy the blahs (even if only slightly) by making the trek to Wal-Mart the day after Christmas.  What, you ask, could cure my mumbly-grumblys? Easy.  The procurement of sparkling-new electronics!  In this case, a Blu-Ray player.  Every avid hermitous movie fan should own one, right? 

I’ve heard it said that spending money releases endorphins.  Don’t believe me?  Ask my girlfriend.  One foot in a shoe store and her pupils dilate.  One whiff of a designer purse and she starts to quiver and babble incoherently.  I once saw her embrace a Dolce & Gabbana hobo handbag and weep ever so softly.  I could’ve sworn I heard her whimper “at last, I’ve found you.”

So, I decided to take a page from her book and spend a little Xmas moohlah on the manquivalent. 

I know what you’re saying.  Wal-Mart. Day after Christmas. Recipe for disaster.  Perfect storm.  In hindsight, I would tend to agree with you my friend.  However, in my defense, I actually had the balls to shop Wally World the day BEFORE Christmas and to be honest, it was relatively pain-free.  So as I sat there pondering the ramifications of diving into a potential sea of pajama-panted house wives and camo-panted yokels I thought “how bad can it be?”

Remember that scene in the newest Star Trek movie where the Enterprise is heading into its maiden voyage to answer a distress call?  They jump to warp behind the rest of the fleet and come out on the other side in the middle of a hellstorm of angry battle?  That’s what we experienced as the double doors to the store whooshed open.

It was insanity.  Shopping carts whooshed past us as we dove forward, rolling across the floor towards the produce stands.  We slid to a stop under the grapefruit bin.  Greedy shoppers with a strange and burning lust in their eyes raced by, growling and grunting, their Keds-covered feet slapping on the tiled floor.  Small children screeched and wailed like prehistoric lizards.  Old men in blue aprons wandered aimlessly about, greeting both the living and inanimate objects.  The cacophony and clatter of shopping cart wheels filled our ears.

“What do we do now,” I asked with fear in my eyes.  I’d known terror before.  Not like this.  “What do we DO?”

My girlfriend’s already vibrant blue eyes seemed to grow colder and more calculating.  This was well-known territory to her.  She grabbed me by the shirt, shaking the composure back into me. 

“We shop,” she growled. 

Reaching up into the bin above us she came down with two grapefruits.  Thrusting them at me, she said “cover me.”  I knew better than to ask questions.  Not that I would’ve had time. She was up and making a b-line towards the center aisle. I flew to my feet already six paces behind her, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.  Two elderly women were rolling on the floor directly in our path, fighting over a Martha Stewart designer Crock-Pot. 

“Oh, nice,” Misty chimed, admiring the cookware as she hurdled the old brawlers.  

Unbeknownst to her, an angry Spanish lady charged in from her right side like a linebacker wielding a shopping cart. The cart wheels chattered madly across the shiny floor.   I acted without thinking, cocking my left arm back and firing the grapefruit mid stride. The pink missile (ew) rocketed towards the lady’s curly unkempt mop, hammering into the side of her chubby face with a gratifying thunk. The orb exploded in a cloud of citris debris and rind.  She cursed in her native language, cartwheeling sideways into a table stand of poinsettia. Red petals and potting soil exploded and rained down around us.  One of her fuzzy pink house shoes flipped into the air.  Misty’s hand shot out and snatched it in mid-flight, swinging it in a wide arc.  It connected with the cheek of an over-weight gentleman who was admiring a Dinty-Moore Beef Stew end cap.  The white rubber sole connected with cheek flesh with a sharp crack that made me wince.

“Heeeeyyyy,” the man wailed, the sausage fingers of one pudgy hand came up to his already reddening cheek.  Before he complain further he was swept down upon by ravenous shoppers clawing and scratching.  I shuddered as I read the sign above his head.  Beef Stew – 4 for $1. 

Poor bastard. Never had a chance.

“Wit!” I heard Misty cry, snapping me back into reality.  She was backed up against a center display of multi-colored Hanes relaxed-fit briefs.  Only $2.99 per pair.  HOLY CHRIST!!!  Two over-sized sweat hogs were shuffling towards her. “Elaaaaastic waaaist baannnd,” one of them moaned.  I looked around frantically for anything I could use as a weapon.  I reached for the first thing I could find as the underpants zombies closed in.

“Hey Tons Of Fun,” I growled and swung the George Foreman in an upwards arc as the ogres turned.  George’s patented cast-iron grill shattered Thing One’s jaw with a crunch as his meaty head snapped back.  Thing Two stared dumbfounded as I brought the grill down in the middle of his forehead.  Blood oozed from a deep gash as he collapsed to his knees.

“George is right,” I said, panting with fatigue, “these things really do knock out the fat.”

“Really?” Misty sneered, unimpressed by my heroism.

“Oh c’mon,” I urged, “that was bad-ass.”  I turned around to find myself standing in front of a display of lawn darts. Two-foot long shiny metal spikes with colorful plastic wings.  “Shit, that would’ve been so much cooler,” I exclaimed. 

In my distraction I realized I’d lost sight of Misty.  I whirled around trying to get a glimpse of where she could be.  I could feel panic setting in when a hand reached out from a “Big and Husky” clothing rack and clamped onto my shirt.  I shrieked in terror, my voice echoing loudly like a little girl. With amazing strength, I was yanked towards a collection of 52 pants.

“Sweet Baby Jesus, don’t kill me,” I wailed at I was thrust into the clothing rack. I threw my hands up to cover my face and cowered waiting for the heavy-handed blows to pummel my head and neck.

To Be Continued – Stay Tuned