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Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Silas Creek Crossing

The Christmas Meanies. It's a disease, I swear. And it's what you'll find at Silas Creek Crossing. It isn't the merchants, and it isn't the wares; it's the shoppers. They've morphed completely into gift-grubbing, sneering, violence-prone freaks.

I kid you not, a fiftyish year old man blew up at me for having the car door open all of forty-five seconds to put the youngest in his carseat when he, the fiftyish year old man, was in a hurry to back out of his parking space. He actually revved the engine of his Ford Thunderbird, then rolled down the passenger window and yelled, "YOU DON'T WANT A FIGHT WITH ME!" Inside the store, the youngest, who was sitting in the cart, quietly clutching a package of purple construction paper, and I drew instant glares for... I have no idea for what. For being, I suspect.

Certainly, one older lady was delightful, offering to take my cart back to AC Moore for me. But she was just arriving, you see. And I was leaving before I could be infected, making a mental note not to return until after the holidays, for clearly Silas Creek Crossing is a hotbed of ill will contagion.
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