How's this for Karma? Although Gays such as myself should NOT be shopping at Target, I have a prescription that is a controlled substance (!) and not easily transferred, so I was at the South Pasadena location today with Muffy Bolding. Well, she saw a cute pair of sandals she thought her daughter might like. Not wanting to be an "uncool mom" and buy anything that her daughter might possibly find unfashionable, she pulled out her cell phone to snap and send a quick photo. Besides, the shoe came in a variety of sassy colors and, should it be deemed acceptable, there was still the question of "which hue would do?"
The moment poor Muffy raised her iPhone to take said photo, a Target empolyee -- standing nearby, ironically piling bananas onto a shelf -- went bananas and informed her that, "The taking of photos is NOT allowed!" I was getting my prescription at the time, but when Muffy approached me, not unlike a puppy that had been kicked, and told me what had just happened, I saw red -- and I am not just talking about the Target employees' signature crimson polo shirts! I marched right past the banana boy towards those sandals and loudly announced, "Here is my cell phone, with a camera, and I am taking a photo of these shoes!" He didn't say a word. But I asked to have a word with the manager -- who, it turned out, looked like a kid right out of high school. Yep, about 5 feet tall with stupid spiky hair and when he said, "I'm the manager!" his chest puffed up like that of a tiny bird. He was talking to a guy who looked like a 7 foot tall fat retarded rat and some rent-a-cop that resembled a young Erik Estrada. I explained the situation -- and my confusion with the NO PHOTOS rule -- and like any good corporate robot the tiny spiky manager/bird simply repeated the rule and pointed out that it was indeed a rule.
"Are you afraid that people are trying to steal your AMAZING Target shoe designs?" I asked, dripping with sarcasm. He repeated the rule. "Aren't there photos of every item available in this store on your website for anyone and everyone to see right now? I mean, are these shoes a SECRET!?" I asked, again leaving a puddle of sarcasm on the floor ("Clean up on aisle 3!"). Again, he repeated that it was store policy, blah blah blah. I said, "Well, that's fucking stupid!" Well, you'd have thought I'd spit on Jesus...
"It is also store policy that there be no cursing -- THIS IS A FAMILY STORE!" he chirped. "A family store, huh?" I asked, the mere mention of the sacred hetero family making me wild-eyed, as if I am anti-family or something. "Well, I am in the MANSON family!" I bellowed. Then he said that we had to leave and that they were calling the police. I pointed out that I was waiting for my prescription to be filled and that I would not be leaving without it. They followed about a foot behind us as we walked to the pharmacy and, at one point, I wheeled around and yelled, "Get a fucking life!"
"That's it, you are being escorted from the store or the police will be called" the Assistant Daytime Manager said in a quivery voice. This was his big moment. I paid for my prescription and we started to head towards the exit. Again, baby bird, retarded fat rat and Erik Estrada walked right behind us. And again, I turned and AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS said, "We are leaving, you assholes! You do NOT need to fucking follow us!" Then I decided to tell a bewildered lady standing nearby the entire story -- AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS -- while Muffy and I marched towards the front door. The woman just said, "That's crazy!"
Muffy, later told me that she had resigned herself to the fact that she would be bailing me out of jail that night. But thank God that didn't happen. We piled into my 2002 Pontiac Grand Am and drove away, vowing NEVER again to darken the doorway of Target!
"This is a FAMILY store!" Fuck you, loser -- you don't think I have a family? Yes, even middle-aged faggots and their Velma look-alike fag hags have families. So go get your butt-ugly girlfriend pregnant AGAIN and add yet another hideous little shit to YOUR family!