"Mall"ed By A Pack of Rabid Lotion Nazis

This hate has been inspired by Rafa at The RudeBlog. Check it. Over and out, shameless plug!

Anywho, do you know what I HATE?

MALLS.

I hate malls. They market themselves as "one-stop" shopping hubs where you can fill all of your pre-pubescent teenage girl needs.

WRONG.

When I was only a wee imp, the mall was my panacea. I would frolick under clothing racks in trashy boutiques, I would run up escalators that were going down, I would get two liters of Orange Julius in my collectible Tweety Bird mug and tweak out on a combined sugar high/inconsolable brain freeze.

Those were the days....

Now that I'm slightly older and more easily persuaded by Old Navy commercials (which piss me off, too. I'll elaborate later,) I have begun to see the mall for what it really is... OVER-RUN BY MALL RATS.

For those of you who don't know what a "mall rat" is, let me show you a decent example...

This is as close as I could get to finding a group of kids reminiscent of mall rats, except the girl's shoes on the end are too fashion-forward. So imagine her with a pair of ratty platform Skechers.

Another good example of a "mall rat" is Avril Lavigne back during her "Sk8er Boi" stage.

Oh yeah, Avril. STICK IT TO THE MAN.

But these examples are still not as accurate as they should be. Think of a little bit of the last two pictures and throw in a little bit of this....

And you've got yourself a decent representation of a "mall rat", those packs of tweeny boppers that sit on the beige couches by the atrium section of your mall, complete with plastic palm trees and a lineoleum-tiled fountain that may or may not be covered in plastic. They're not there to shop. They're there to see and be seen as MALL RATS.

Look at his nails. HARDCORE SHIT.

So whenever I have a temporary lapse of sanity and decide for one reason or another to go to the mall, I recoil in fear when I see these MALL RATS filling space like consumerist sardines, talking loudly about the latest 30 Seconds to Mars album and doing intricate tricks on their Heelies.

So I get over my initial fear of mall rats and decide to walk towards the Naked Edge Cutlery Shop because I got my switchblade sharpened and I need it to... to cut... to cut things.

As I'm walking towards the Naked Edge, which happens to be inconveniently located in MALL RAT CENTRAL, I pass by one of those Dead Sea Lotion Kiosks. And one of the lotion nazis approaches me.

Let me back-track. I call these people lotion nazis and if you have ever encountered one of them, you'll empathize with me. They're like a materialized version of really intimidating telemarketers. I equate them to the Goodwill telemarketers who call me and ask for donations. They're not asking you. By God, YOU ARE GOING TO HELP POOR PEOPLE AND DONATE ALL OF YOUR BROKEN SHIT TO GOODWILL OR THEY WILL HUNT YOU DOWN. Like that.

I see the lotion nazi from about twenty yards away and I prepare accordingly. I get out my phone which is actually a fake phone from a dollar store because I'M A SOCIOPATH AND I HAVE NO NEED FOR A WORKING CELL PHONE and I pretend that I'm reading and/or typing out a very important/amusing/heart-warming text message. I shove my other hand into the pocket of my black North Face fleece jacket so NO SKIN IS EXPOSED. This is very important when encountering a lotion nazi. For some reason I believe that if they don't see your skin, they'll just assume you don't have any and render you useless.

I pass by and I focus ALL OF MY ATTENTION on my fake phone. But this is where it all goes terribly, horribly wrong. I focus so hard on my phone that I draw attention to myself. Surely no one can be reading and/or typing out THAT CALIBER of important/amusing/heart-warming text message. It's too good to be true, my thoughtless tree frogs. They smell a rat.

Not a MALL RAT.

Those smell like cheap glitter sprays from Bath and Body Works.

No, no.

They can tell I'm a LIAR. A LIAR THAT HAS DRY, CRACKED HANDS.

So they pounce. It's all very predatory. In an instant, I am accosted by a crisply dressed lotion lackey who asks me if he can see my hands.

There's no escaping this. He's not asking me a question. He's giving me AN ULTIMATUM.

"Good afternoon, may I see your hands?" literally translates to...

"HEY SHOW ME YOUR EFFING HANDS OR I'LL ASPHYXIATE YOU WITH CELTIC SEA SALT."

Since I am without my trusty switchblade for situations like this, (oh, and for... for cutting... for cutting things,) I have no choice but to surrender one of my gnarled hands.



My now defenseless mitt is subjected to a lumpy concoction that I'm pretty sure has garlic in it. I'm deathly allergic to garlic (no thanks to you, Uncle VLAD THE IMPALER,) so my hand starts twitching and my talons turn purple.

Lotion Nazi snarls, "So, doesn't that feel better?" roughly translating to, "YOU TAKE IT AND LIKE IT, CIRCUS FREAK."

To which I respond, "Please no.... I can't afford any more two pound jugs of garlic lotion. I don't know where to put them anymore. My pot hole is small and I just got a new Marcel Mini Sofa from Pottery Barn."

Lotion Nazi retorts, "Are you sure? You can never have enough lotion!" Translates to, " THAT'LL BE THIRTY DOLLARS AND WE DON'T TAKE VISA."

So right now I'm looking at a brand-new bottle of Cucumber Sea Breeze Hydrating Balm. I vow to never go to the mall without my switchblade and/or a two pound bottle of MACE EVER AGAIN.