This past weekend I was in my favorite store in the world, Target, and was walking past the card section on my way out. Unfortunately, I hadn’t found anything wondrous to significantly enhance my quality of life this visit, so I was a little bummed. As I breezed down the aisle, I noticed this lady standing next to the rack of cards, her small child perched in the front seat of her cart. She and her reproductive dropping were dressed like any other slightly wealthy suburban ass-clones, so I didn’t give them a second thought.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, she lets out this exclamation, screaming it at the top of her lungs, “Cinderella’s ASSHOLE!!?!”
I stopped dead. My ears rose about five inches into the air, spontaneously grew pointed Spock tips, and turned bright red.
WhohuhWHAT?! Come AGAIN?
Shocked, my jaw fully dropped, I turned and looked at her again. She now had my (and a couple of other people’s) undivided attention, as anyone who would stand in the middle of a crowded department store and yell about Cinderella’s chocolate starfish certainly deserved it.
But then my brain made it worse. I mean, yes, it was bad enough that she was yelling this blasphemous statement in a public place, but it was worse because she had somehow managed to make it into the form of a question. WHY? WHY WOULD THIS BE A QUESTION?
I just didn’t understand it, and now all my brain could do was to try and think of the reverse-Jeopardy answer that would fit it. Uh, “Image that topped ‘Human Centipede’ as the most soul-destroying thing you have ever seen?” Or, “Mentioned (and shown) in the porn version, ‘Sin and Her Fella?’” Oh, I know! How about, “#1 instant boner-killer!” for a thousand, Alex?
Ms. Yuptastic seemed oblivious to the ruckus she had caused, pointing at a card her son held in his tiny hands and laughing at the image on the front. It was then that my brain caught up with my ears and realized that:
a) The woman in question had a thick, unidentifiable accent.
b) She had said, “Cinderella’s CASTLE” not “ASSHOLE” and was looking at said image on the card her son held.
Disappointed, (and oddly relieved) I resumed my trek towards the exit. Later that day, I realized I had literally gone decades on this planet without ever contemplating the existence of Cinderella’s (extremely clean, I’m sure) nether hole.
And I was uncontrovertibly happy about that.
But now, thanks to this innocence-destroying lady, the workings of Cinderella’s puckered poop chute would haunt my dirtied and defiled mind for the rest of the day.
Damn her to Disney hell.
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