Miserable Retail Slave
The Cure For The Case of Common Boredom
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Sex Toys!
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by Bets Wad
I am not a friendly person. I don't much care for people. Put me into a situation where I have to interact pleasantly with the general populace and I end up cringing on the inside when I'm forced to exchange pleasantries. But, I do what I have to do. I can get along with most folks, I can deal with the bored chatter of clerks, and I can grimace in pain but pass it off as a smile when someone overly helpful crosses my path.
But there's one place where I wish that sales people would get a clue and leave me the hell alone. And that place is the sex toy store.
I understand that the folks aiming for the business of the somewhat normal and not-too-skeevy are trying to pretty up the industry. There's no shame any more in wandering into their retail establishment and purchasing that 12 inch-long black rubber dong (complete with nards). This is evidenced by all the romantic crap and pink decor and marketing aimed towards happy couples. Sex toy stores are happy, feel-good, NICE places to frequent. Except when they're too nice.
Now, I'm not talking about the vomitous decor, or the well-lit displays, or hiding the more "risque" items in the back room. I'm talking about the insane attack clerks these stores are hiring. Seriously.
The last time I wandered into a business like that, I was lucky to escape with my life. As soon as I walked in the door I was mobbed by hyper, too-knowledgable, pitbulls disguised as average females. I managed to lose them by the teddies for about two minutes but as soon as I poked my head around the leather display they were on me again.
And hey, some folks might like this sort of thing. The inept, the clueless, the hopeless... I can see how agressive sales staff might be handy. But when I go into that sort of store I want to skulk around. Lurk in the shadows. Have a bit of peace while I'm comparing the Uber-Vibratey Toy of Joy to the Spinny-Wiggly Bliss Stick. I just can't shop well while exercising evasive maneuvers.
It all makes me long for the good old days when sex was dirty and shameful and if you wanted to get yourself a set of nipple clamps you had to don a trench coat, fedora, and shades. And when the sales people probably left you the hell alone.
This is a Wit Free Zone.
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by Bets Wad
For a little while now my friend RFP has been pestering me to come up with something witty and amusing for his little site.
"Bets,"he pesters, repeatedly, "write for MRS. You know you want to."
And I do, but much like Ro-Ads and her stymied writing skills, my wit has deserted me as of late. Or it only makes appearances at the most inopportune moments. Like the middle of funeral services or while I'm being pulled over by an officer of the law at 2 a.m. after a hard night of showing the beer who's boss.
And I'm fairly certain that the only reason my misguided attempt at wit didn't get me sent to the pokey in that instance was because of the spectacular display of cleavage my friend Tay and I were sporting (Hooray for Boobies!). That and the hooker heels.
But anyways, I have been in search of my wit for some time now. I've looked in all of the usual places one searches when something has been misplaced - amongst the couch cushions, under the bed, behind the microwave, in The Boy's porn stash... And nothing.
Not one glimpse of my wayward wit. I'm about to post signs offering a reward for its safe return. My luck though, someone would give me Dane Cook's wit and he really kinda sucks. A lot.
So here I am, trying to be humorous and failing miserably. Without my wit I am nothing. Less than nothing even. I am like a pie without filling or a bottle without beer or a sammich without fix-ins. It's a very sad state of affairs.
Regardless, to return to the lost wit posters- It might be worth a shot. My wit could be found and returned and I would once again be an amusing person to speak to. Or at least I might become a touch less dull.
Now I'm left with the difficult task of how to properly describe my missing wit. I mean, how does one go about describing something invisible? It's not like I've lost my dog, he would be easy enough to describe: LOST: 80 pounds of fluffily leg-humping fury. Answers to the name Doggle when he feels like it. Looks like a cross between a retarded lab and a small horse with stumpier legs. Eats small children for snacks. If found please don't return.
Perhaps I ought to just resign myself to a life of witlessness. Plenty of people seem to do fine without one. Dubya for instance. No wit, but he managed to get himself elected president. Twice even.
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