My friends and I were in a bookstore once–one of those big national-chain-type bookstores where you need to use your GPS to find your way around. Actually, this was long enough ago that you had to leave a booktrail to follow back–you know, where you take a book you like and leave it facing cover-out so that you can follow the books like a breadcrumb trail back to the front door, The Sound and the Fury to American Gods to The Maltese Falcon and so on…if you’re with friends you know well enough, you can also use this method to find each other in the store. Anyway, one of my friends was being hit on by this totally obnoxious guy who was being a condescending jerk to her just because he was very good looking, which would have been less offensive if he hadn’t been spouting really bad existentialist philosophy at the time.
Disclaimer: I have nothing against existentialist philosophy, as long as it’s done well, preferably in a French accent while smoking a cigarette. Sadly, this was both crappy and in a Middle America kind of accent. Not that I have anything against Middle America, it’s just not known for its existentialist philosophy. Crap. This is bound to offend someone. Don’t hate me.
So my friends and I stood watching this for a while, because it wasn’t a big town and that counted as entertainment, when suddenly I’d had enough. I mean, there’s only so much douchiness you take, especially when it’s being dished out to your friends. So I ran around a display, rushed breathlessly up to my friend, and said, “Oh my God! It’s really you! I can’t believe it! No one’s going to believe me when I tell them about this! Can I have your autograph?!” And my friend graciously signed her name as Douchebag Hairdo gawped moronically on the sidelines. Friends: 50 million. Douchebag Hairdo: 0.
Friends are awesome. Can I just say? Also: everyone deserves to have that happen to them at least once in their lives. Except maybe for Douchebag Hairdos.