The mall is nice and warm, and all the "food" places open early so that you can get there and enjoy all the flavors of retail before the teenagers show up. And who, exactly, is enjoying all the flavors of retail? Not to put to fine a point on it, Old People. Tiny ladies with warm-up suits and popcorn hair jogging around the mall like it's their own personal gym, deftly maneuvering around the men with buckets and white shirts and feather dusters tucked into the backs of their belts so as to give the whole group the look of a crowd of Cleaning Ostriches. Except ostriches are normally lighter-skinned.
I transacted my business and I stopped to get a cup of coffee and perhaps some sugary, greasy starch. Cinnabon has a thing that's like a Cinnabon, except that it's about an inch and a half in diameter. I wanted one of those with my cup of coffee, except that you can't get one of those, you have to get SIX of the damn things, and I didn't want six. I bought the six anyway and gave the other five to the ladies at my chiropractor's office. But while I was sitting at a table, eating my tiny little Cinnabon and drinking my coffee, I looked across the way at a store called "The King of Knives." In the window of this store there is a mannequin wearing the kind of black and white houndstooth pants that chefs wear, along with the double-breasted smock. In front and slightly to the mannequin's left was an 18-inch representation of a Swiss Army knife, its many blades mechanized to extend their full length, then fold back into the model in a show of admirable Swiss precision.
From my vantage point, I watched in horror as two of the blades criss-crossed, scissor fashion, across the mannequin's crotch, followed by a sweeping swing of the very largest blade from above to finish the emasculation of said mannequin. This happened over and over, approximately every five seconds, and the whole time the mannequin just sat there with a resigned smile on his face.
Then I realized that he was bald. That was it. I'm sure that he figured that since he was already bald, obviously the worst fate that could ever befall a human male, he may as well resign himself to a reduced existence of non-sexuality, since, without hair, he would never again be in a position to use his penis anyway. Before becoming a knife store mannequin, he'd probably tried Rogaine, that spray-on stuff, bad toupees and things like rubbing vodka and tabasco on his head before going to sleep, and when none of it worked, he threw in the towel, and his penis along with it.
I shouldn't shop retail anymore. I just don't have the heart for it.