A Nice Little Saturday
No matter what state of existence you live on there always comes the task of deciding what to do on a Saturday night. It’s right after Friday so you know you still have a whole other day off before returning to work, meaning Saturday is the night to maximize your free time and do the things you slave away for from Monday to Friday.
With the looming darkness of the Alaskan winter, I slept like a fucking cave bear into the late a.m. Saturday and found myself at the computer, spitting out the highly sarcastic “King Kong” review. Since Saturday morning cartoons are now a thing of seizure-inducing anime and bastardized versions of my 80’s favorites, they are no longer an option.
Around 2 p.m. I am confronted by my significant other, fully dressed and showered and in need of a mission. Any mission. We’re going out, God knows where, for how long, how far, or with what money, but we’re leaving the homestead for adventure and excitement.
In fifteen minutes I’m whipped into a cleansed and fully clothed walking, talking son of kung fu, complete with walking stick, bag of fortune-telling stones, and a tootsie pop.
Out the door we go and begin our crusade to find and create the perfect little Saturday.
We park on 4th Ave and it’s decided that we head into the Grizzly gift shop, for no reason whatsoever as we’ve seen every Alaskan gift that has ever been made. We go anyways and I look at the fucking Happy Hookers shirt and think to myself that I might be able to make it work until I realize that I already have the damn thing and no, it didn’t happen for me.
We skate toward 5th Ave, where the Mall and assorted little shops are. They are calling this area SoNo (meaning South of Nordstrom), which is the most ridiculous thing to try and make happen since Lacey Chabert’s attempts to make “fetch” a catchphrase.
Anyways, my deceptive wife lures me into the Egan Center where, what a surprise, there’s a fucking craft show in full swing. I go along with it and am treated to yet another batch of bear paw salad tossers (no, they’re not hairy homosexuals), personalized ornaments, and hand-made jellies and jams for all your toasting needs.
I almost want to set up a porn booth at one of these things, just to switch it up and catch someone off guard.
“Oh, these are nice looking jams, aren’t they honey?”
“Oh yeah, great, hey what’s that booth over – holy fuck, I’ll be right back hon.”
Anyways, the craft fair sucked like a Hoover with a full bag, so we hopped across the street (yes, like little fucking bunnies in a springtime field) and hit up Karluk’s, which is a quaint little teashop with all sorts of eye candy (and real candy). The shop makes you feel like you’re in a Merchant Ivory Christmas movie, but I guess that isn’t so bad. No Anthony Hopkins though.
The wife buys some Jewish candy shit for her Jewish secret Santa person at work (secret Santa and Jews, yes, somehow it’s possible). I stare at the Asian girl in short jean skirt. We leave. Everyone’s happy.
5th Ave. Mall is the best mall Anchorage has to offer, which isn’t saying much, but it’s not all that bad either. It’s actually quite nice. Comparing it to a mall in Chicago is like comparing the dollar store to the mall of America, but it does the trick and I’m really not that picky.
The very best thing about 5th Ave. Mall for a guy like myself is a trip into Nordstrom. My eyes are able to feast upon the gathering post for attractive females in Alaska. It’s like it sends out a beacon to all hotties in Alaska to converge for tips on how to destroy men and make them eat out of the palm of their hands and to put on make-up and buy $700 purses, all while wearing their most tight and revealing clothing.
The MAC make-up counter is my wife’s place of business and I position myself somewhere in the vicinity, soaking in all the flavors and visuals of the surrounding area like Britney Spears soaking up rays in a trailer park tanning bed.
From there we make our way back to 4th Ave. to pick up the car and roll out. Naturally, we’re treated to a homeless native who, because I didn’t make eye contact, decided to let me know how much he intimidated me by saying, “Yeah, fuckin’ right.”
I hurriedly got in the car, shaken to the core at the threats of the drunken native that couldn’t stand up if I dangled a big bottle of firewater in front of him and thanked the stars for the safety I enjoyed as a little white boy in this big bad world.
As we hit the road, the wife and I decided to play our favorite game. You guessed it. Where Do You Want To Go For Dinner??!!
This is the best game. How it works is like this:
“What do you want for dinner?”
“I don’t know, you decide”
“It’s your turn”
“Well, what are you hungry for?”
“I don’t care, just pick someplace”
“Okay, howabout Chucky Cheese?”
“Now you’re just being an asshole”
“Takes one to know one, babe”
“Pick a fucking place to eat”
“You mean, like a restaurant or a place to take our food and sit down and eat it?”
“You’re such a fucking moron”
“Cause we could just grab a couple sandwiches from the gas station if that’s the case”
“Fuck you, we’ll go to Outback”
“Cheese fries like a motherfucka”
You get the idea. If you don’t, well, welcome to my world.
We decide to hit the Dimond mall first, before we eat. The Dimond Mall is a special place as it’s where I watched my wife break into tears when she saw people wearing furs and that there wasn’t an Express. Chicago ruined her.
A person is shot at the Dimond Mall like, oh, I don’t know, every seven to nine minutes, so there’s lots of useless mall cops in body armor and lots of Asian kids that are undistinguishable in gender.
We decide to look at the puppies and get a cookie. The wife squeals like a six-year-old that just found a quarter from the tooth fairy when she sees a Boston terrier. We then head over to Mrs. Field’s to get a cookie and before I can say “Hey, my girlfriend’s workin’” my wife says, “Hey, look, your girlfriend’s workin’”
My girlfriend is, in fact, working. She is a blonde-haired girl who has worked there since I first moved to Alaska three years ago and yes, she is very foxy. We need to say foxy more. Say it a few times before you read on.
Good. So, my girlfriend leaves, without so much as a kiss or a blowjob and we get a cookie. Well, I get a brownie and the wife gets a cookie. As we order, the overweight manager, a well-meaning fellow, gets me to try their peanut butter and jelly cookie, which does, in fact, taste like peanut butter and jelly.
He goes on and on, obviously trying to somehow impress the 17-year-old hotties that are baking cookies in low cut shirts and whale-tail revealing jeans (I’m not bullshitting you). The girls are unimpressed and you know this guy has a mad crush on all or at least one of these girls and masturbates to the point of seizure to these poor, unsuspecting, whore-dressed trollops.
I fuckin’ love Mrs. Fields.
So, brownies, cookies, puppies and hotties behind us, we quickly grow bored and head to the attached Best Buy. I sign up to win an Xbox360 in a military appreciation contest and then stare at the Xbox360 demo and get a boner. Luckily, I’ve had sex with a girl before because if I hadn’t I’d probably fall in love with the Xbox360, marry it, and probably lose my virginity to it.
All right, All right, but it is pretty fucking cool. Not cool enough to stick your dick in, but cool enough.
Tummies begin to grumble and we ship off to Outback. I call ahead for seating but it doesn’t matter. We end up walking right in and grabbing a table at the bar right away. Then we stare at the people waiting to be seated and eat our food slowly, exaggerating our enjoyment in orgasmic moans and groans while they wait with their crying baby and box of crayons.
We then make our way to Fireweed theaters to catch “Just Friends.” My review is below, so I won’t discuss it here. This is how classy Fireweed is: The ticket taker tears our stubs and then tells us that if the theater is too cold for us to let them know and they’ll refund our money.
The wife decides to get our jackets and we bundle up for a good ol’ time with Ryan Reynolds and Amy Smart’s crotch shots.
Walking out, it begins to seem that what was originally going to be a lame Saturday has become an event. The wife calls out Barnes and Noble and I walk right into it. Barnes it is.
Barnes is like church to me. Sacred, filled with love, books, and nicely dressed people. Okay, that makes no fucking sense, but whatever.
I buy an exercise book that will help me implement my workout routines for block leave and a couple Christmas gifts. I can’t stop shopping. I’m fucking addicted. I’ll never seek help.
I then join my wife in the Starbucks café and she’s immersed in the new InTouch. It’s her turn to get the goods so she brings back a piece of cheesecake for me to stuff down my throat and a tea for herself.
While sitting there, enjoying the good company of the fellow patrons, we notice a cracked out lookin’ guy dressed in black with hair like Edward Scissorhands circling the café and sitting down, circling the café and sitting down, circling the café – you get the point.
He is acting utterly suspicious and the wife and I begin to discuss this man’s motives. Is he stalking a 15-year-old Starbucks girl? Is he thinking about robbing the place? Is he waiting on a drug buy? Is he waiting for his mommy to pick him up and take him back home to Spenard?
He continues to act suspicious and we both grow uneasy. As is always the case now, I go into Army mode, planning what to do if he pulls a gun, where to go, what to do, what’s the best use of cover and concealment, at what proximity to I take action or seek cover, what amount of force should be used, and man, is that chick really fifteen because those are some nice –
- The wife is up and walking, on a mission. I quickly get up and follow her. She says nothing until I catch up.
“I have to tell someone,” she says. Where I was sitting and planning a full on military operation against this misguided youth, my wife decided that the best course of action would be to…tattle.
So, she seeks out the the most responsible adult she can find, an authoritative figure who will handle the situation maturely and calmly, she seeks out –
- The 18-year-old sales clerk.
The clerk listens to my wife’s story about Edward Scissorhands on crack (I guess that really does make sense) and his suspicious ways. The girl says she’ll tell a manager and assures us that we’re going to heaven for our good deed.
We drive slowly and suspiciously, eyeing Scissorhands through the window as he sits in the same spot. We watch him like two crackers in a country club who just spotted one of them Negros at the golf course bar.
We agree to check the newspaper the next morning for any shootings.
Heading home, it’s 10:30. I toss out a challenge. I dare Fred Meyers. She accepts. Oh, it’s on. We are officially not old anymore. 10:30 and WE ARE STILL OUT.
We start to walk into FM and in front of us is a big black man wearing a jersey that has the name “Simpson” and the number 32.
Being the true white-bread motherfucker I am, I turn to my wife –
“Simpson. Do you think that’s for O.J.?”
I get the eye roll.
Hey, I’m just watchin’ out, man.
We are welcomed into FM with outstretched arms from yet another drunk native, but this one was much more jolly, singing a little song and smiling with his one tooth. I ignore him but he doesn’t shine me on.
We have very little time to enjoy our trip, as the announcement comes that FM is closing at 11:00. Motherfuckers.
We start to head out, disappointed and defeated. As we walk through the grocery area I am met with something I’ve never quite seen before and never want to see again.
Two men, well, I’ll call them boys. Two video-game playin’, Dungeon’s and Dragon’s buyin’, never touched a vagina boys, dressed in the most ridiculous attire I’ve ever seen.
Boy #1 is wearing a black cowboy hat and black trench coat. He has ugly glasses and a mullet and is wearing a bell around his neck. As he rounds the corner I see that he also has a tail. Yes, a tail. From under his jacket, he has a fucking tail, the size of a fucking horse and it’s just dangling there and boy, has he shown me.
Boy #2 looks just as ridiculous, with ugly glasses and chopped blonde hair and yep, there it is, another fucking horsetail.
Other patrons notice and giggle and these guys just keep on truckin’. I can imagine the conversation had I asked them the question everyone wants to ask: WHY?
“Yeah, we do it because we can”
“It’s a free country and we can do what we want”
“Yeah, it’s free and we can do whatever. And my dad raped me”
“I’m gay and I want to rape him, too”
“Dude, it wouldn’t be rape, I’d let you do it”
“Will you wear the chipmunk costume with the ass cut out?”
“Only if you wear the Panda”
“Dude, we could play some D&D afterwards”
“And drink lots of soda”
“Lets get the cocoa puffs and twizzlers and get the fuck outta here”
“I’m so excited I just peed”
“Holy crap. Me too”
I have no doubt that’s how the conversation would have gone.
So, FM adventure now over, we decide to push our luck. Let’s take it to the next level.
The wife suggests we hit the Castle, which is like the Blockbuster of porn shops. I see her bet and raise it. I suggest we hit the strip club next door afterwards so I can get a lap dance. And she doesn’t go for it. Pussy. I win.
Fuck. No, I don’t.
Anyways, the Castle, a place of clean and presentable porn of every type right at your fingertips; You’re welcomed with open arms and polite courtesy from the staff all in matching Blockbuster-esque uniforms.
“Do you need help finding anything sir?”
“Uh, yeah, the She-Male midget pee-pee porn, where’s that at?”
“Right this way, sir. Now, did you want the 4 hour marathon version or the feature-length?”
“4-hour marathon, please. And the strap-ons are…?”
“Right back here, sir”
I didn’t say any of that shit, but, y’know, I heard some guy say it.
We look at costumes and DVD’s and magazines and toys and everything that our little diseased minds can soak in. There’s really nothing left to see. I’m done. I’ve seen it all. I couldn’t be more corrupted. My mind is tainted with the world’s graffiti.
I give my wife the signal and she returns it. We don our ski masks and draw out our pistols and yell for everyone to get on the floor. The wife busts out the bag of ecstasy and we make everyone take a hit.
I force them all into the back room and cram all 15 people inside a back room, forcing them to strip. The wife giggles like a schoolgirl (how do they giggle again?) and we take all of their clothes. Naked and with the ecstasy now in their system, we toss in a few bottles of water, lock the door, clean out the cash register, grab a strap-on and some She-Male porn and we’re out the door. I laugh like Robert DeNiro in "Goodfellas" and fuckin' rock and roll.
Okay, fine, we didn’t take the strap-on. Yeesh.
Driving home, we reflect on the day’s activities.
“That was a nice little Saturday”
“It was. It really was”
“Did you get the strap-on?”
“That one guys ass was pretty hairy”
“Not as hairy as yours”
“Fuck yourself, buttercup”
“Don’t be that way”
“We forgot to go to Home Depot”
“Shit. Do we have any ecstasy left?”
“A whole bag”
“Home Depot. Punch it bitch”