Dammit! How the hell are there 10 people here already? Crap crap crap. The flier said there was only 10 of the good plasma TVs at the stupid low price. And I bet every one of these turdnecks in front of me gets one.
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How can you soulless bastards sleep at night, knowing you're
the reason I'm forced watch standard-definition porn?
Screw you, world. Screw you for making me pathetic enough to be here at 11 p.m., but not pathetic enough to be here at 10. It's just the exact wrong amount of patheticness to have. A bit less, and I would start owning shoes with laces and making friends again. A bit more, and I would start qualifying for government aid.
So, what exactly am I still doing here? There's nothing else in there that I actually need. I don't want to go in there and start instinctively buying shiny things, like some kind of magpie. I swear, if I come out of here with a goddamn Blu-ray player, I will shoot myself in the lung.
For that matter, do I actually need this television? Will my life be better for having it? I can't think of anyone who would actually be impressed by this. I bet if I tried to tell my grandchildren about this one day, they would just leave the room.
"He's finally asleep. I'll watch over him, you call the nursing home."
No, dammit. This television will make me happy. I know it. And that's the worst part: This television will make me happy. I'm not even human anymore, am I?
I bet if a caveman saw me, he wouldn't recognize me as a man. He would think that I smelled like death. He would leave me to die with the rest of these sickly specimens, go off to kill something with a spear, and then fill my girlfriend with strong, powerful babies. And I would respect him for it.
When this is all said and done, I'm going into the woods, and I'm going to kill something with my bare hands. Even if it's a bag of Cheetos. Every fucking holiday season, I get this conviction that I need to go eat Cheetos in the woods, but, this year, I'm going to do something about it.
I guess I could hope that not everyone in front of me gets the TV. That sounds risky though. Spending hours waiting in the cold to buy a television is stupid. But, spending hours waiting in the cold to not buy a television? That's getting-laughed-at-during-your-eulogy stupid.
This is disgusting. Just a bunch of people huddled up on the sidewalk, shivering under blankets with their bodies and smells. And not just regular people. Gross computer people. I wonder if the recent uptick in bedbug infestations has anything to do with the parallel increase in Apple product launches.
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The "i" in iPhone stands for "itchytasty."
Fuck it, I'm staying. If anyone tries to take the last plasma in front of me, I will go absolutely bananas on them. The doors will open, and I will go straight for the TVs, and, if there aren't enough, then I will execute Plan Omega, and go for the back of the legs of someone carrying a TV.
Yeah, that's right. I'm going to start wailing on people because I want to buy a $900 television for $500. Because that's the world we live in. I always thought when we reached the dystopic future that there would be some kind of sign, such as a robot Pope, or a lot more leather armor.
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RoboPope's Laser Of Excommunication would guarantee him the first spot in line, every time.
OK, reeling my insanity back a couple ticks, there must be another way to whittle down this line a bit -- something that doesn't herald the end of mankind.
I bet if I offer to give this guy a back rub, he'll bolt. There is no way he's got the nerve to stand in front of Crazy Back Rub Man for eight more hours.
Unless he does. He might actually be into it. Dammit. I'm not even very good at back rubs. We would get halfway through, he would totally call me out on my lack of skills, and I would look like a fool.
I'm definitely glad I brought my good jacket. It is stupid cold tonight. My penis has retracted so far inside my body that I've got myself pregnant.
Man, that would be an ugly baby.
No bottle for you -- just a paper bag with eyeholes and an apology to the world.
Look at that poor guy over there in the windbreaker. He's going to die, and the birds won't feed on his corpse because they'll be able to smell how dumb he was.
If I ate a ton of asparagus and started peeing around here, I bet I could cut this line in half. I bet that's why they don't sell asparagus at street carts. There's probably a municipal bylaw. Some asparagus-eating maniac ruined the 1954 Black Friday, and, now, none of us get hot asparagus snacks.
Hmm. If I make friends with these guys around me, it will make it much easier to betray them. Like, I could say I would hold their place in line and then, when they come back, I could tell them that I have short-term amnesia and don't remember who they were. "You should have made me tattoo it somewhere," I would say with a shrug.
"Find man who cut in line just as doors opened. Kill him."
Or, I could ask them to hold my place in line, and then I would go break into their car, and ghost-ride it past them until they left the line to run after me, and then, when they're pulling it out of the front window of the Chili's, I would run back and move up a spot.
That would be a fun way to get on the news. "PEE-BANDIT WRECKS CHILI'S!"
Next year, I'm going to come down early and put up a fake sign on the wrong side of the building. It's going to say "Best Buy Black Friday Line Starts Here," and there will be a bunch of arrows leading to a dumpster where I had a good asparagus pee earlier.
I've heard things go insane once the doors open. Pushing, shoving, ball-flicking, everything. I'm a little worried about that one guy back there with the huge bag. I bet he's got a helmet and two baseball bats in there. He's going to start dual-wielding baseball bats, and here I am, not wearing anything enchanted against bludgeoning.
Lord, I am a nerd. And now I wish I was wearing something enchanted against self-loathing.
This cloak grants 500 experience points for every hour you don't cut yourself.
Wait, here comes a guy. He's distributing tickets to people in line. I guess that will limit the chances of any two-fisted shopping once inside.
And, yes, every single person in front of me is getting the plasma TV. This is just like Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory, only in this version, Charlie's left outside the gates with a Blu-ray player, muttering strange ideas about pee. Well, I guess I've only got one choice now.
Yes, he does want a back rub. He's been admiring my hands all night, in fact. How bad do I want this TV? The unspoken question lingers in the air.
Ugh. Argh. Ohh. Oh god, he's making moaning noises. Stop it, weird back rub-enjoying dude.
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So much for my happy ending, especially if that's what you want next.
Yeah, this is feeling a lot more like a dystopic future now.
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.
It's easy to work the system and win these awards even if you don't deserve them.