Today I was wandering through a Marshall’s to kill some time, because I can usually get cheap socks or T shirts. What I like about Marshall’s is that even though it’s full of cheap stuff, the type of people you encounter have a decidedly less “People of Wal-Mart” vibe than Ross or Burlington. But today my retinas were subjected to the type of abuse usually associated with staring at solar eclipses for hours on end, and I’m still shaken.
When I went to leave the store, I had to slow down because directly in front of me, taking up the entire width of the double exit doors, was a Giantess outfitted in yoga pants and a crop top. The curious side of me wondered about the square footage of material and what it was re-purposed from to make her pants, and it remains a mystery whether or not the crop top was intended to be worn as such or if the fit was a happy accident when she discovered that a quad X men’s Tee could only cover so much of her torso.
What really attracted my morbid fascination, however, was her triceps; like a parody of one of those horrifying Brazilian “bodybuilders” (a parody of a parody, then) that show up on the internet as cautionary tales with cartoonishly enlarged and disproportionate muscles inflated with site injections of synthol, her upper arms took no heed of the limitations her shirt sleeves theoretically enforced, instead choosing to swing freely several inches below her elbow.
This needs to stop. No longer should I have to fear for my sanity any time I venture into a public space, when around any bend I might witness a scene like the one described above. And for God’s sake, think of ...
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