-Dear Abercrombie & Fitch/Hollister,
You are a festering pustule on the backside of humanity. I say this to you, not out of hate, but out of a deep, unending loathing for you. You offend me on so many levels. First, the outside of your stores looks very similar to a back alley abortion clinic.
Both have lots of shame and clothes hangers.
Second, that"music" you insist on blaring at decibels approaching "permanent hearing loss " levels may serve as some sort of siren call to the throngs of your frequent customers that Urban Dictionary best describes as, "[individuals] who have over-inflated senses of self worth, compounded by a low level of intellegence... [and] no sense of how moronic they appear", but to the average mall shopper it sounds more like a screech owl being fed through a wood chipper.
Third, while I've never actually been inside one of your stores, a quick Google image search reveals that the walls inside which are not covered with painfully over priced douchebag clothes, are covered with imagery that at best could be described as "Greco-Roman" but more resembles "homoerotic". George Michael's bedroom probably has straighter wall hangings than you. I'm fairly certain that the brief glimpse of your advertisements that I got doing the image search was enough to turn me from mostly well-adjusted straight guy to complete homosexual*.
*Not how actual homosexuality works. Sorry to break it to you, Rick Santorum.
And your smell. Dear God, your smell. It permeates from you like radiation from a nuclear blast and is probably just as healthy for you. In a recent trip to the local mall in Omaha (we've become pretty familiar with the city lately), the smell from one of your stores managed to not only make us sick as usual, but overpowered the scent from the "Perfume Palace" that is only two stores down from you. When your stank is smellier than the store whose primary purpose IS to smell, you need to reassess you priorities. We feel like we need a shower just walking past you.
A dead skunk, baking in the hot sun for weeks after being doused in garbage juice and killed while suffering a particularly nasty bout of food poisoning would smell so much better than your stench. It can only be described as "distilled essence of concentrated douchebag".
Second, that"music" you insist on blaring at decibels approaching "permanent hearing loss " levels may serve as some sort of siren call to the throngs of your frequent customers that Urban Dictionary best describes as, "[individuals] who have over-inflated senses of self worth, compounded by a low level of intellegence... [and] no sense of how moronic they appear", but to the average mall shopper it sounds more like a screech owl being fed through a wood chipper.
Third, while I've never actually been inside one of your stores, a quick Google image search reveals that the walls inside which are not covered with painfully over priced douchebag clothes, are covered with imagery that at best could be described as "Greco-Roman" but more resembles "homoerotic". George Michael's bedroom probably has straighter wall hangings than you. I'm fairly certain that the brief glimpse of your advertisements that I got doing the image search was enough to turn me from mostly well-adjusted straight guy to complete homosexual*.
*Not how actual homosexuality works. Sorry to break it to you, Rick Santorum.And your smell. Dear God, your smell. It permeates from you like radiation from a nuclear blast and is probably just as healthy for you. In a recent trip to the local mall in Omaha (we've become pretty familiar with the city lately), the smell from one of your stores managed to not only make us sick as usual, but overpowered the scent from the "Perfume Palace" that is only two stores down from you. When your stank is smellier than the store whose primary purpose IS to smell, you need to reassess you priorities. We feel like we need a shower just walking past you.
A dead skunk, baking in the hot sun for weeks after being doused in garbage juice and killed while suffering a particularly nasty bout of food poisoning would smell so much better than your stench. It can only be described as "distilled essence of concentrated douchebag".
In short, Axe Body Spray.
-Dear Teen/Tween Girl Clothing Store (Delia's, Claire's, etc),
Please stop assaulting me with the neon nuclear explosion that you call clothes. Looking near you is painful. All I want to do is walk past you on my way to the Cinnabon, the two of us ignoring each other. But, you insist on bombarding me with violently neon colors that look like a rainbow dropped acid and vomited all over your store. Tone it down. Your target demographic are already enough of attention whores.
-Dear Dippin' Dots,
You are awesome. I want to have your liquid nitrogen dipped babies.
-Dear Women's Clothing Stores (Limited, Lane Bryant, etc),
Please place in your stores, preferably near the fitting rooms, one (1) bench, chair, or stool for your client's significant others. We are about to be put through some of the roughest 30-45 minutes of our lives:
Clothes Shopping Itinerary
0-9 mins: Pace around store as wife tries on clothes. Desperately try to avoid accidentally looking at intimate section for fear of looking like a filthy pervert.
9-10 mins: Get caught accidentally looking at intimate section and look like a filthy pervert.
10-15 mins: Wife storms out of fitting room, utterly disgusted with herself, the clothes, the world, and life in general.
15-25 mins: Stoney silence. Walk around mall in huff.
25-26 mins: Make comment about the wonderful smell of Cinnabon. Receive icy glare.
26-45 mins: Wife realizes that there is a walking outlet for her rage tethered to her. Take blame. Dream of death.
As you can see, the least you could do is throw us a bench. Doesn't even have to be a comfortable one.
-Dear Dead Sea Salt Hand Scrub Free Sample Person,
The answer is, and will always be, no.
-Dear Food Court Vendor Free Sample Person,
The answer is, and will always be, yes.
-Dear Torrid,
You are a plus sized clothing store. You have four jeans styles in your selection and three of those styles are labeled as "skinny" jeans. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irony
-Dear Teen/Tween Girl Clothing Store (Delia's, Claire's, etc),
Please stop assaulting me with the neon nuclear explosion that you call clothes. Looking near you is painful. All I want to do is walk past you on my way to the Cinnabon, the two of us ignoring each other. But, you insist on bombarding me with violently neon colors that look like a rainbow dropped acid and vomited all over your store. Tone it down. Your target demographic are already enough of attention whores.
-Dear Dippin' Dots,
You are awesome. I want to have your liquid nitrogen dipped babies.
-Dear Women's Clothing Stores (Limited, Lane Bryant, etc),
Please place in your stores, preferably near the fitting rooms, one (1) bench, chair, or stool for your client's significant others. We are about to be put through some of the roughest 30-45 minutes of our lives:
Clothes Shopping Itinerary
0-9 mins: Pace around store as wife tries on clothes. Desperately try to avoid accidentally looking at intimate section for fear of looking like a filthy pervert.
9-10 mins: Get caught accidentally looking at intimate section and look like a filthy pervert.
10-15 mins: Wife storms out of fitting room, utterly disgusted with herself, the clothes, the world, and life in general.
15-25 mins: Stoney silence. Walk around mall in huff.
25-26 mins: Make comment about the wonderful smell of Cinnabon. Receive icy glare.
26-45 mins: Wife realizes that there is a walking outlet for her rage tethered to her. Take blame. Dream of death.
As you can see, the least you could do is throw us a bench. Doesn't even have to be a comfortable one.
-Dear Dead Sea Salt Hand Scrub Free Sample Person,
The answer is, and will always be, no.
-Dear Food Court Vendor Free Sample Person,
The answer is, and will always be, yes.
-Dear Torrid,
You are a plus sized clothing store. You have four jeans styles in your selection and three of those styles are labeled as "skinny" jeans. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irony
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