A Good Yarn
Every weekend I can be sure of one thing. I will be dragged like a limp dead body to a yarn store by a couple of knit wits. For some reason, women have found themselves reviving the knitting tradition. They are everywhere! Stores stacked with balls of yarns. Yellow. Orange. Striped. Angora. Paca. Wool. I actually overheard a woman ask the owner, "When do you expect your summer yarns in?" Yarns have seasons? Goddamn seasons! Goddamn! Regardless of the selection, this was no way to spend any part of a day. You don't see men foraging for food with shotguns...I mean we have supermarkets people!
Maybe I am being a bit rash, but please heed these words: If you are going to open a yarn store, for the love of God get yourself a liquor license. Beer is the missing essential element to the knitting tradition. I don't know where the six pack got lost along the way to socks, hats, scarves, and baby bonnets, but dammit we have to find out. Tradition would want it that way....where do you think a yarn of beer comes from, certainly not the laundrymat (that is a whole nother post). Plus, what else could a trapped man do in such a store?
As I sat on the designated "waiting couch", drool seeped from the corners of my mouth. My head took me to far off places, numb places, bored places, places where my mere existence could barely eeek out a breath. Thoughts that ran through my head as I tried to entertain myself in such drab wake-like surroundings. I wanted to yell to my girlfriend, "Honey, why don't you come on over and sit on the make out couch with me!" I couldn't do it.
Tackling. Tackling would be fun in a yarn store. I could crush everyone under mountains of yarn, and I would be victorious! I would be a linebacker bruiser such the world has never seen! Easy boy, don't make a scene...don't embarrass the girl. I could start with that rack of yarn and it would set off a dominoe effect. No! No! Fight the urge. Fight the urge. Now as you can easily see...had beer been present these thoughts of mine would of burst to life. Instead, they lingered stale in my mind, rotting like so much forgotten fruit. One can only make for the exit and escape from a such a situation
ME: "Oh man, I think I 'm gonna go to Radio Shack."
I am a doomed man. My girlfriend is a stitch bitch. An all too colorful pseudonym for granny girls taking up the needles and spending long hours making hats. And these hats look like nipples. I may have to purchase a flask.Posted by Monkeyspit at March 8, 2004 11:36 PM