Outlet malls, much like fascism and mayonnaise, are one of those things for which there is no gray area, no middle ground. They’re either a large part of your reason for living, or the absolute bane of your existence (well, technically, Ashton Kutcher is the official bane of my existence, but outlet malls are still pretty high on the old bane-o-meter). By way of not being creative enough to come up with a better segue than this, I just so happen to have been at an outlet mall this very week past, just outside of scenic and historical Williamsburg, home of funky hats, horse crap, and the House of Burgesses (a burgess, of course, being a female burge). Why, you may ask, do I loathe outlet malls so? It is quite simply because it is as if some telepathic land developer read my very mind, discovered exactly what stores would be incredibly boring and of absolutely no use whatsoever to me, plunked down five acres of them somewhere and then threw in a secondhand record store just to make it easier for my mom to justify taking me there for an hour and a half (sorry Mom, but it is indeed a clever ruse on their part). For those of you so blessed as to have never been to one of these abominations of commerce (and The Abominations of Commerce would, by the way, make an excellent name for a band) here followeth a brief description of just a few of the manifold evils and bits of deviltry which may be seen at that most blasphemous of commercial establishments (other than Ashtaroth the Soulrender’s Office Supply Warehouse and Strawberry Farm, of course).
First, you’ve got all these stores named after people I’ve never heard of, like Harry & David, or Joaquin & Beldar. Clearly, I’m supposed to know who these two guys who’ve opened a store here and be impressed by their legendary fashion acumen and just take it on faith that whatever they happen to be selling there is going to be awesome. But I never know who these guys are, they might be world famous for dressing like Hare Krishnas for all I know, and after what happened to me at prom Junior year, I know for a fact that the Hare Krishna look is not a good one for me at all. Now if they had a store there called something like Batman & Skeletor, then I’d pretty much be willing to just run in the door and start throwing money at them like a congressman at a highway bill, but alas, such classy establishments are nowhere to be found at the Williamsburg outlet mall. For one brief shining moment, I thought fate might have smiled on me, after I passed a store called Hagar. I ran in and was all excited and junk, because I simply adore Viking apparel and accessories, and I’ve been in the market for one of those horn helmets ever since I foolishly washed my last one under the assumption that it was dishwasher safe (in turns out it wasn’t microwave safe either, just in case you were wondering). Sadly, it was all a terrible, terrible lie. All they had there was button-down shirts, khakis, and ridiculously expensive sunglasses. I’m kind of amazed that they can sell anything at all after luring people in with a lie such as that.
You remember that guy that Superman fights from time to time, Mr. Myzplytyk? It turns out that he’s opened a store at the outlet mall, called Bcbgmaxazria. At first I was kind of psyched, because I thought that he’d have all sorts of crazy alien space gizmos there left over form his many battles with the Son of Krypton, but no, it was nothing but women’s clothing. In a rage, I tried saying the name of his store backwards, in the hope that it, like himself, would be cast back to his home dimension by such an act. Alas, I must have said it wrong or something, because despite my sepulchral intonations it refused to budge from this particular plane of existence, sitting there like a sack of three-toed sloths which has been flung from off the
The Bass outlet store likewise turned out to be a great disappointment, as I discovered to my dismay that they carry neither fish nor electric guitars there, favoring instead a wide selection of shoes that look like they might be good for wearing outside, but really aren’t (Take that, Bass outlet emporium, your hideous secret is at last revealed to all the world! Mwahahahaha!).
All the paper towel dispenser machines there are those electronic ones built by some guy who got tired of people being able to dry their hands. They’re the kind that have that little motion detector eye in them, and they’re all extra stingy with the towels, so you have to just stand there in the bathroom, waving your arms like you’re about to backhand the towel machine until eventually your hands just dry off from all the waving and the towel machine can smile inwardly from the depths of its cold, unfeeling, mechanical innards.
And finally, an unexpected high note which I conveniently forgot whilst earlier listing my litany of suffering, is
