BIGBOX, BOOYA!  My guns: Winchester and Beretta. My furniture: a tasteful mix of antique and designer, all of great richness and value. My apparel? Needless to say, sometimes the clothes do make the man, and I am a man well-made. In America (may Satan defile her), the social mountain climber need only train in ambition. Ours is a caste system built upon a foundation of dollar bills; class, dealt to the highest bidder. For instance: my cat Banshee does her dirty business is a sterling silver litter box and takes her Fancy Feast™ from a crystal dish. Do I love Banshee? Undoubtedly. I stroke her. I tease her with a feather play toy. But more important than all of this, I lavish her with expensive luxuries and shown my love quantitatively. Banshee, for her part, has come to demand such treatment. Her finickiness borders on the imperial. For a time (and for her supposed benefit), I brought her monthly to local Cat Fancier social events. While the abundance of lonely, single, career-minded women worked miracles for my sex life, the get-togethers did little for Banshee. She would sit on my lap, as regal as a queen, regarding the plebian behavior of the other felines with total disinterest. "My, she certainly loves you," said one attractive, late 30's ad saleswoman. "No, she just thinks the other cats are below her." I was being serious, but I said it with a dandy glint in my eye, and the night ended in sex.
A comfortable home is not furnished with Shaker end tables alone. For more utilitarian requirements the Big Box serves a vital function. Yes, pushing about a big red cart is a real stomach-check for people of taste, but there is a price to be paid for convenience, and for freedom. I try to view it all as a grand adventure. In slumming, I find my humanity. And so it was on a hot summer's day. Out of doors, in the parking lot, my Hickey Freeman suit clung to me like a wrestler's unitard. Across the molten tarmac, though the sliding glass doors, and into that vulgar retail palace I went. I was smacked by a blast of refrigerated air. I grabbed my cart. The air was thick with the smell of greasy pizza and hot dogs from the food court. Despite myself, I was delighted to be where I was. Oh Target, bringer of such pleasant revulsion! Perusing, I filled my cart with sundries. The Target employees, clad in their sexless red polos, were sundries too; little people, too small and numerous to warrant individual description. How badly they needed the Prosperity Gospel of Gurtien Satanism! How badly I wanted to use my cart at a soapbox, to climb atop it, to freelance a sermon. "You are partisans to your own haplessness, you rubes!" I would cry. "They offer you a plateful of garbage and you bring your own silverware!" I'd suggest that they unionize. That they strike! That they form a subversive cadre and rob their outlet blind! But that would have drawn attention, which is the last thing I want when I'm shopping at Target. And so I pushed on, casting my silent judgment, wallowing like a swine in the low, low prices. What would Jesus buy? Nothing, which is why he's such a killjoy. Were Jesus alive today no one would want to party with him. Thank God for consumerism, for free-market Satanism, and for Greed. Health care benefits make for expensive Chinese baubles! Bigbox, booya! Huzzah! |
info@gurtienministries.org
© Copyright 2003,2004,2005,2006,2007 Charles Gurtien Satanic Ministries