The Dollar Tree is not fun. There's no joy in the place. No shopping excitement. It's full of slump-shouldered old ladies and tweakers and Mexican kids with huge moles on their forehead and low-end MILFs buying lame Halloween decorations in the middle of July. The products there feel like they should come from a ration book with pictures of staples like potatoes, beef, and imitation cleaning products like Pine Solve and Wintex.
If the future is really these dollar stores cropping up everywhere then we are facing the pathetic terminal phase of America. We shift from buying junkfood and things we don't need to buying nearly poisonous food and completely useless crap. You buy a DVD called CREM 2 and tell me that it doesn't feel like the end of all the consumerism we once cherished in America.
On the sunny side, at least we can get an advance on our next paycheck to buy more Bible crosswords and Stars & Stripes rootbeer. If only they had a 3-liter of gin.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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