Getting Off at the Shopping Mall

 

 

Been to a shopping mall lately?

Talk about hell on earth!

 

Going shopping is bad enough.  But toss in prospecting for a parking space, swarms of mindless teenagers walking six in a line, and the latest annoyance — the gauntlet of sales carts and kiosks blocking every aisle — and that makes going into the mall for a pair of socks like maneuvering an obstacle course.

What happened to the days when shopping malls housed a bunch of popular stores with names we actually knew?  What happened to the customer’s “space?”  Now, malls have pretty much become the Grand Bazaar.  It’s like walking through Istanbul on a Saturday afternoon.  You can’t tell even anything about the stores or what they sell any more from the outside.

Consider these names at a popular mall in Las Vegas:

The Body Shop — Great!  Can I get a new body, please?

Coach — Is this where Jerry Jones will be shopping next fall?

Crocs — Can I get an alligator gift wrapped?

Guess — Is this where I go if I have a question?

Lids — Hooray!  Marijuana on demand!

Panda Express — For those who want to buy a Giant Panda, and are in a hurry, here’s the place.

Sbarro — Somebody sure messed up your sign.  Aren’t you missing a vowel?

Topman — No doubt, a very popular store in San Francisco.

Victoria’s Secret — Does everyone in the store whisper?

I guess I can live with crowds.  Even teenagers.

But what really burns me up is being assaulted by salespeople who constantly try to sell me stuff I don’t need.  Most of these pests work at kiosks and are paid a commission on whatever they sell.  That basically turns them into panhandlers, only with nametags.  It’s like pulling up to an intersection and being mobbed by the guy with the squeegee.  They refuse to take “no” for an answer.

Things have gotten really bad.  How bad, you ask?

Last Saturday, Marieta and I went to The Fashion Mall on the Las Vegas Strip.  Don’t ask me why I was there.  After 23 years of marriage, one doesn’t ask questions anymore.  You just do as you’re told.

Anyway, we walked the gauntlet and were approached by several kiosk workers during the afternoon.

The first guy tried to squirt hand cream into my palms as I walked by.  He wanted to give me a “free sample,” he insisted.  Hey, motherfucker.  Don’t be pumping hand cream into my palms.  Especially in a public place.  I can do that on my own, thank you very much, and when I do so, I prefer that moment be in private.

Another ass fryer tried to sell Marieta on the scam known as “free jewelry cleaning.”  Here’s how the con works.  The slimeball looks for his mark wearing jewelry.  He offers to clean your jewelry — for free!  Meanwhile, if you’re stupid enough to fall for this pitch and remove your jewels, the cleaning takes at least 20 minutes, just long enough for you to be forced to listen to the entire sales presentation.  It’s worse than buying a timeshare.  You’re forced to hear about some bullshit cleaning product that might as well be Windex in a tiny bottle, sold to you for today’s special price of $24.95.  Hey, but at least you got your wedding band cleaned for free.  It just cost you a half hour and the last shred of your dignity.

The worst thing that happened to me, however, was the self-massager.  Some pretty girl holding onto a strange metal device that looks like a giant spider approached and offers a free massage.  Now, assuming I can get that special deal on the hand cream from the other guy, I might be interested in this proposition.  Especially if the girl is willing to get involved.

Anyway, the girl reveals this strange wire contraption that’s supposed to fit over the top of my head.  The tips of the metal rods stroke my scalp as the device is moved back and forth over my head, which actually feels pretty good.  Really good, in fact.

More hand cream!  Pronto!

By the time her magic touch ends, I’m about ready to elope with the wire massager and race off to the wedding chapel.  I’m joking, honey.  But I already know what I want next year for Christmas.

The real issue for me is this.  That metal spider thing has probably been on like 87 other scalps today.  And now, it’s on my head.  This means the head lice that used to be living on some tourist’s scalp visiting from Georgia have U-Hauled their greedy selves into my hair.  Having that thing of my head makes me fear I might as well have had sex with 87 other people today.

And I never even had to purchase the hand cream.

I love shopping.