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You Are Dumb, which is not a blog, posts new columns every weekday, except for a couple of days each month when it doesn't. It is also a Twitter feed, @youaredumb, with content in a similar vein but much shorter. My spinoff food site, Forkbastard, can be found easily enough by the clever.
Archive - Jul 16, 2008
Memo to Target Douchebag: YOU ARE DUMB.
Man, it's been a long time since I've gotten to do one of these. I really prefer to live my life in such a way that I experience stupidity secondhand, through the Internet. But I'm fighting some pretty fucking tall odds there, and there's only so much you can do. Eventually, an idiot WILL cross your path, and in the SuperTarget in Knollwood, MN, it happened. Allow me to enumerate the crimes against humanity committed by the cropped-head, late-twenties douchebag ahead of me in line.
Crime the first: the faded T-shirt from some surf shop or the other. This is Minneapolis, asshole. If you're wearing a surf shop T-shirt here, you either don't surf, which makes you a poser, or you don't surf anymore, which makes you a double poser, because if you give up surfing to move to fucking Minneapolis, land of the ice and the snow, then you damn well better renounce ALL TRAPPINGS of the surfer lifestyle. Do not cling forlornly to the remnants of your surfer past, even if it's laundry day.
Crime the second: purchasing Axe products. If General Motors ever discontinues the Hummer, the people keeping the Axe line of manstank products will move to the top of the conspicuous consumption asshole list. I'm guessing, from the size of the package, that it was some sort of body wash designed to make every inch of your body, from scalp to taint, smell like someone who's dumb enough to have, even subliminally, bought into the Axe brand marketing campaign. And we both know this thanks to your third crime.
Crime the third: trying to EXPLAIN your Axe purchase. Not to me, but to the woman in line in front of you. This, by the way, is where the whole fucking thing began. I wouldn't have noticed the surf shirt if it weren't for the Axe thing, and I wouldn't have noticed the Axe thing if you hadn't tried to explain to the woman in front of you who you were clearly at least sort of kind of trying to chat up that you wouldn't have bought the Axe, but they sent you a free sample in the mail and, through the experience of that sample, determined that Axe products weren't too bad.
It was, in case you were wondering, completely fucking transparent. Clearly you saw her notice the Axe, clearly you knew that the Axe commercials made you look like the complete douchebag you were, and clearly you wanted to cover for it to save face. It didn't work. At least it didn't work for me, and I'm guessing, by the noncommittal "I'm just here at Target, stop talking to me" response you got, that it didn't work for her either. Which, by the way, leads us to:
Crime the fourth: stealing a frozen pizza. Having decided you were a douchebag, I was seventy-five-percent sure that the frozen Target fancy pizza on the bottom of your cart was not there because it wouldn't fit in the top of the cart. I was pretty sure it was there in the hopes that the Target cashier wouldn't see it and wouldn't ring it up, and you'd walk out with a free pizza. But since I hate to judge people wrongly, despite how rarely that ends up happening, I decided to do something that would fuck up your plans if I was right, and help you if I was wrong. So I kindly reminded you so you didn't, you know. Forget your pizza.
At that point, you son of a bitch, you lied to my face that you'd forgotten to put it up on the belt, then LEFT IT THERE, where, as predicted, the cashier ignored it and you went on your way. And on the off chance you were wondering, as you walked out the door and to your car, whether I'd be alerting Target to your petty pepperoni pilfering, let's clear this up. I'm not in inventory control. And I don't have an Uncle Ben you can ironically turn out to have killed with your stolen pizza, teaching me a lesson about responsibility. All I am is a man with a keenly honed douchebag detector, and by brazenly continuing with your cheesy larceny after society had taken notice of it, you'd proven its accuracy to within a milliliter of vinegar and water.