Sometimes things disturb me greatly, to the very core of my bone marrow’s being, (which is where your being be), and the sick snot of reality lightly grazes my soul and causes an involuntary electric shudder along the stiffening tinker-toy discs of my galvanic spine. For the sheer fear of accepting their allowance into a coincidental existence with myself, I have not shared certain events with the fragile minds and ears of others. This, dear friends, is what the internet is for.
1. An overlarged woman in her decaying years walks along the road, pulling along behind her violently a leashed little Dachsund®: a tiny phallic dog unfortunately endowed with an equally comical erect phallus, now pointed straight forward and dragging, nay, digging deeply into the coarse sidewalk before him. Was I mistaken? Or did I see a dark streak of dickblood slicken along the pavement behind? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
2. While at work, a woman impatiently demands that I check the bathroom (where I had hoped to only check my own reflection for its continued awesomeness), for her teenaged son taking longer than usual. I hesitate, wondering if this is part of my job description in the interest of customer service, and lamenting my decision to opt for this, the closer bathroom. I agree, and soon discover that she has neglected to mention three important facts. One; that her son is mentally retarded. Two; that he was going number threes. And three; that he will not only respond, but in fact will present himself to any person who calls his name.
3. A man so obese as to warrant the purchase of a muumuu waits for the light to change, leaning laboriously against a straining crooked cane, impishly small and ill-suited to its utility. Today: Wednesday, I’m told, he has chosen perhaps his most spectacular muumuu. Electricity-acid traffic-cone photon orange. His corpulence reflects upon the ground beneath him as he tugs sloppily at the frozen convenience store drink through a double-wide straw. His waiting is in vain, he could surely move along the street with traffic, indistinguishable from construction vehicles and smallish cement mixers.
4. And finally, surely most disturbing of all, the fifth of six bathroom sinks is adorned with a sign that reads: “Out of Order, Sorry for the Inconvenience: Please See Our Information Desk on the Third Floor for Assistance.” Somewhere in the Westfield Mall, there is hired help, most likely hourly, one of whose main functions is to assist visitors easily confused and frightened by the anxiety-inducing broken sink two floors down near the food court.