What I haven't mentioned is my pick for worst Christmas song of 2006. It's that godawful song about the kid whose mother is dying of cancer, and he decides to go out and buy shoes for her. Every time I hear it it sets my teeth on edge, and I want to throw something.
"I think it's a nice song," says Corb. "The boy buys his mother shoes, and she has something pretty to wear when she dies."
"What kind of sick twisted shit is that?" I say, irritably. "She dies on Christmas Eve, right? Merry fucking Christmas. Do they open the presents the next day, with her dead in the bedroom?"
"They're very poor," says Corb. "She might even be in the living room with the presents."
"I hope she died with a smile on her face," I reply. "Didn't these people ever hear of Hospice? And why shoes? Why doesn't he buy her a pretty blond wig? She went through chemotherapy, right?"
It was at this point that Corb saved this crummy saccharine Christmas song for me, remembering an episode of Dr. Beverly Hills that we saw a few weeks ago, about a woman who wanted her labia straightened out. It sagged on one side.
"I want to buy you a labia," he sang, with the song. "So that both sides are even. It's Christmastime, and both sides should be straight."
Unfortunately, I was taking a sip of coffee at the time. We were in the parking lot of Borders, and I had to open up the door and spit out my coffee on the ground, I was laughing so hard.
Speaking of Border's, I have one general rule when I go in there: avoid the staff at ALL costs. A smarmier, more self-absorbed lot I've never seen. I'd make a perfect employee.
(On a side note, there is one Borders employee that I adore, at our local store in North Eldredge. She has a shaved head, lots of piercings, and the best attitude in th world. I always try to get to her register whenever we go!)
Anyway, about a week ago, we were at the story, buying a gift for my dad, and I saw a Brian Wilson book that would have been perfect for my brother. Only problem was, I was in the huge line that takes two hours, and just about to be summoned, and I didn't want to give up my place. So I passed it up.
I went back today, to look for it. Couldn't find it anywhere. I kept roaming the aisles, in the vain hope it would appear.
"Ask for help," said Corb.
But I didn't want to ask for help. I knew that I was going to be irritated by the experience. Finally, however, I gave in, and approached a tall guy who seemed obsessed with his hair, which fell down to his waist. He kept putting his fingers through it, pushing it back, as if trying to reassure himself that it was still there.
He looked irritated by my request. How dare I ask him for help? I explained my request, and he frowned and walked over to the nearest computer and typed in "Brian Wilson."
"I already tried that," I said. "Wasn't there."
"Yes, but have a super secret source that I can check," he said. He scanned the screen. "Oh, here's your problem. We're all sold out of all Brian Wilson books."
Hmmm. Interesting. So, the three copies of "Wouldn't It Be Nice" I saw on the shelves was just a figment of my imagination?
I left him to go back to his hair. I almost was tempted to warn him that if he kept stroking it, it would fall out, like mine.