And Then Her Head Fell Off.

Originally posted here on January 26th, 2006.

So I’m standing in line at the grocery store a few nights ago, generally minding my own business, unless you factor in the internal debate I was having with myself over whether or not to buy the latest issue of In Touch for news on the whole Brangelina baby saga (I didn’t buy it, but I digress). In front of me is a girl-woman (I couldn’t determine her age) buying a few boring items—toilet paper, toothpaste, cereal, etc—but I notice her because she is obviously trying to stick out. Her hair is teased and white-blond, her skin is day-glo orange, her make-up is comprised of colors not found in nature since Chernobyl exploded and she is wearing—in Wisconsin at the ass-end of January—a strapless, sequined top, a denim-micro mini and heels that a stripper would find obnoxious. On top of all this, she’s yakking to one of her friends on one of those new, violently pink Motorola Razrs which is burning into my already strained retinas like a botched bit of Lasik surgery.

Still, I cannot stop staring at her—I feel much the same as Dr. Jane Goodall must have when she started to study gorillas—and I figure that this might be the only opportunity I’ll have until spring to study a Paris Hilton in the wild. As the line progresses, I start to notice an odd lump near her waist, and before I can even venture a guess as to what it could be (an oddly shaped pregnancy bump? A couple of squirrels seeking warmth?), the lump disappears and a shiny, purple, strapless bra falls out from under her top and lands, cups down, on the floor. I gape openmouthed at the bra for a few seconds and then do the only I really can do: I start to laugh as if Lewis Black just climbed on top of a cash register and started to tell jokes. Then I pick up the bra and tap Paris (who still hasn’t noticed, believe it or not) on the shoulder. As she turns, she gives me a look of pure attitude, which makes me consider starting a game of monkey in the middle with her lingerie, only I don’t know that the others who noticed would get involved and I’d hate to shift the fool-spotlight over to me.

“What,” she sneers.

“Uh-huh-hum,” I try not to start laughing again, “I think you dropped this.” And I lay the bra gently on top of the package of toilet paper clutched in one of her arms. She stares down at it for awhile and then looks back up at me with pure disgust, which I misinterpret as mortification.

“Frankly,” I say, “I didn’t think you were wearing a bra, so I guess you don’t really need it.” (Yeah, my comforting skills could use a tune-up. Bite me.)

“Ewww,” she squeals loudly enough for everyone in the five lanes next to us to hear, “you nasty dyke, get the hell away from my underwear!”

I am so shocked by this that I’m not really sure what to say, so I don’t say anything. I shoot her a look that plainly relates, “you are a crazy, insecure bitch,” and wait for her to leave so I can pay for my stuff and get the hell out of the building and away from the stares of the people around me. As the cashier hands me my change, I hear an, “OOOF!” from the other end of the store, and when I turn to find out where it came from, I am pleased to see Paris flat on her ass holding the broken spike from one of her heels. I pocket my change, grab my stuff and walk past her, laughing like Lewis Black decided to climb down from the register and follow me home.

I don’t really know if her head fell off next; the title of this entry is just wishful thinking.