This here is known as steaming piles (thanks Adam). This is where you get the full out rants...anything goes...don't hold back!

QUALITY APPAREL (WITH SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED)
By Paul

I had a real job once, an office type-deal where not only did we have to wear clothes, but dress shirts, you know with buttons on 'em and everything. Up until this time I hadn't owned a button since grade school--we had uniforms, Catholic school. So I drive over to the mall to buy a week's worth or shirts with buttons and one pair of khaki's that I intended on wearing everyday. So I'm driving there, and you know these drivers that drive way too fast and the jerks who just blindly switch lanes and stay no less than a foot from your bumper when they're behind you and are just overall maniacs? Well that's basically how I drive at all times. But I don't get all tense and start banging on the wheel when someone is driving slow; I don't have road rage. Instead I like to approach those situations like my parents handled me when I did something wrong. Like when I brought home a D in math in 6th grade, my parents weren't mad, they were disappointed. And because its impossible to be mad at disappointment it makes you get a B in math the next time around. So that's what I do when I'm driving, I get disappointed with the guy doing 45 in the left lane on the highway. I drive up next to him and just look down and shake my head real slow. I say to him. "You know, I expected a lot better from you, I really did." then I let out a big sigh and take off.

So anyway, I get to the mall to buy these button shirts. I pull into the parking lot, and let me just ask this: Is this anything more pathetic than a stop sign in a parking lot? Does anyone obey parking lot 'traffic' laws? There really isn't enough time to obey parking lot 'traffic' laws. You're already going 8 mph. One time I hit a car in a parking lot, and the driver didn’t even know. I got out of my car and apologized. He said, “Not your fault my wife’s a whore—or is it? Oh hey, do they got a Sunglass Hut here?”

So I drive by the handicapped spots. What a waste of a spot. In all my years, I have never—not once—have I ever seen a wheelchair parked in one of those handicapped spaces. You’d think I’d see one by now. If the handicapped aren’t going to park there, then get rid of the spaces.  At least make them smaller; you don’t need all that space for one wheelchair. Maybe give them a bike rack-sort-of-deal instead.

So there’s no spots to I decide to park in the fire lane, because if there's a fire in the mall, I'll make sure I'm the first one out of the building so I can move my car.  And besides, I'll most likely be the one who starts that fire because the mall is the worst place in the world. For example, when I go to find these button shirts, I can't even find just a plain ol' shirt. I don’t want stripes or plaid. Just a solid color, that’s all I want. All the mall has for plain color shirts is pink. This is the men's section. Pink. And you know, I'm not gay, I don't care if you're gay, but I don't even think gay guys should wear pink. Pink is a girl color, and yeah I know it's 2006 but pink is for girls and blue is for boys, like when you have a baby, a boy gets blue balloons and a girl gets the pink ones, right?  So I finally find a plain shirt with buttons. Dark red, perfect. It was from Polo so it had the cute little horsy on the pocket. I bring it to the guy and he says, "Seventy-five dollars." I look at him, I say, "Oh, no just this shirt with buttons today, thanks." He says, "Yes, that's seventy-five dollars." So I look down to make sure I hadn't grabbed twelve of them by mistake; nope just one. "Seventy-five for one shirt? You're kidding me." At the time, I was wearing a freebie t-shirt from a 1997 road-race that I didn't run, $10 sweatpants with a hole in the crotch and dirty New Balances with paint dots on 'em. He says to me in this very condescending tone, "Why of course it's seventy-five dollars, those buttons are made of ivory." “You got any plastic buttons I can slap on here and I can get outta dodge?" I said. 'No," he says as he looks me up and down, "but you can go to Filene's Basement and find something in your rather small budget. Hmph." So I say to him, “You know you work at the mall, right? You got a Dapy next door.” But actually he was very helpful because later I went to Filene's Basement and found the same dark red shirt with ivory buttons for 6 bucks. Only the little horsy on the pocket had three legs and the little polo jockey was Canadian. But hey six bucks, can't go wrong.
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I went Christmas shopping for a little charm to go on my mother’s charm bracelet. Aww, isn’t that cute? Anyway, I go the mall’s jewelry store. I say to the lady, “I want that one,” not pointing at anything. “Which one?” “I don’t care, whatever. Pick one for me.” So she picks one. “How’s this?” “Beautiful, pack it up. I gotta get out of this place before I learn how to make a bomb.” “Okay, that’ll be $385” “For that? It’s the size of a rice-crispie. I’ll give you thirty-two bucks.” “You’ll never find this for less than $385.” So I say, “Yeah? Wish me luck.” And scrammed. And whaddya know, I went to Filenes’s Basement and found the same exact charm, except it was quite the struggle taking it off that old lady’s charm bracelet.
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Ever buy something at Coach? I bought my sister a bag for her birthday. Aww, how precious. Anyways, I bought her a tiny-matchbook-sized handbag for $157. That’s it, there’s no punchline to that one.
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Ever buy new clothes and you try ‘em on, and they fit great. They even look great. You're thinking “this shirt looks great on me, I can't believe it.” So you wear it out all confident to a bar. Here you are, wearing the greatest shirt in the world, you feel like you can walk up to any woman in the bar and just start making out with her right there in front of everyone. Until towards the middle of the night when you realize you forgot to take that little sticker off that says XXXL on your left man-boob. Can’t wear that shirt out again.
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Sometimes I'll forget to do stupid little things, like I'll be meeting up with my buddies at a bar or something, and once I get to the door, I realize that I forgot to put deodorant on and that I may or may not smell bad. But I don't want to know if I smell bad or not so I'll keep my arms glued to my side and I'll keep my coat on regardless of how hot it is in the bar. Because I get this crazy idea that my coat will hide my potential BO, when in fact it’s just creating more because I'm sweating my balls off wearing 3 layers indoors in the middle of August. Then you get the jerk that cleverly tells you to "Take your coat off and stay awhile?“ Only they usually don’t get to the end of that sentence because by that time I’ve already punched them in the throat.
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I just got back from a three-week vacation. I went to the IKEA in Stoughton. I would have killed myself a week into it but I couldn’t find a knife; all they had were Låkommen and Mahle. Well I did find this one knife but it came in 74 pieces and was made of particle board.

Ever try to buy anything in IKEA? You see what you want to buy, but instead of just picking it up, handing a stranger your money and getting out of there in 48 seconds, you have to write what down you want on the back of their little treasure map with a toothpick. Then they send you on a voyage to find your item in the warehouse. It seems easy, ‘I’ll just look for my bookshelf where they keep bookshelves.’ Nope, doesn’t work that way. First you have to consult your Swedish-English decoder-ring to solve the IKEA-Code. Then once you cross the raging rapids and the poisonous snake pits, you’ll see an eager IKEA customer service staff waiting to not help you even in the slightest way. I bring my treasure map up to the register. “Yeah, I want this.” I point to the word I wrote down because I feel stupid saying the IKEA word for bookshelf, which happens to be Tardpokken. Isn’t there a way for me to buy this bookshelf without sounding like I’m a pedophile at the Special Olympics? She tells me that I have to go get it myself. I asked her, “So what do you do then?” She said, “I’m your next checkpoint, from here you have to navigate through the parking lot. Bring something to eat. Try our 8 cent hotdogs.” So I go back into the warehouse to find my Tardpokken, which is atop Mount Kilimanjaro—and yes, I was too lazy to find the name of any mountain in Sweden, but who cares, you get the idea. I couldn’t reach the Tardpokken.

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