Greetings from the frontlines, If I were a wide-eyed “doughboy” fighting it out in WWI circa 1914, I’d say we were, “in the trenches.”
As I write this letter to you, my dearest and most beloved reader, I’m fighting a war. When last we spoke, I was a haughty and devastatingly gorgeous Baroness, drunk with power and success. Today, in the throes of battle, I come to you as a war-savvy huntress, a wild priestess, hungry for peasant blood.
Season Three of Shopkins dropped last week in my local Toys R Us.
The hysteria that the release was met with can only be described as awe-inspiring. Multiple locations in my metroplex reported screaming and shoving matches. Of course, being the trend-setting, homework doing, deity of modern consumerism, that I am, I was ahead of the curve and ready to pounce on plastic gold.
With a war chest fully stocked, my partner in grind, G$ and I arrived at our local Toys R Us last Wednesday at 9:30 am , a full 30 minutes before the store opened. As the unshaded sun beat down upon us, I chatted idly with an Alpha Mom nestled under a golf umbrella, we became fast friends, or did we?
Make no mistake, in war one must at times embrace the enemy in order to manipulate the situation. By the time the doors to the orgasmic air conditioning sprung open, I left my new bestie, Alpha Mom in the dust, quickly utilizing my beloved and secret shortcut to the Shopkins zone. G$, ever the faithful soldier, split up and muscled a shopping cart, emerging soon after my arrival on the Shopkin festooned aisle. He was resplendent, like some Norse God, a blonde wall of man clad in Aviator shades (he refused to remove them as an intimidation tactic, it worked!) I proceeded to fill the cart he provided with hundreds of dollars in stock…er, Shopkins for V to collect. In the span of 10 minutes, I managed to spend the better part of a grand on the little bastards. G$ and I were lords of war, victors in the cruel world of little girl’s toys.
If the endeavor weren’t highly lucrative and fueled exclusively from previous sales, one might consider me insane, that person is a sore loser who obviously skipped industrious ingenuity class in school.
Speaking of people with limited education, take a look at this GEM of a comment I sent to the trash can earlier this week. The hate for the Baroness is real and 100% hilarious.This was in response to my post, “The Biggest Rip-Off in America.”
Disclaimer: If you have a problem with tweaked up meth heads assaulting a keyboard because the Wal-Mart threw him out for public urination, then you might want to skip this portion of my post. Everyone else, please enjoy the critical writings of Cletus McF*ckwad!
“That is BULLSHIT that PATHETIC people can’t go get a real job but have to make profits off of kids toys because they are to damn lazy to work and sell a $10 toy for $100. I am a father that spends time and gas to find these things for my daughter but IDIOTS buy them up so we can’t. If I seen some ebayer in the store trying to buy up all of them I would strait spit in their face………”
The only thing “PATHETIC” is his command of the written English language.
PROTIP: if gas money is a serious complaint and factor, maybe you don’t need to be buying toys, but rather putting something into savings instead.
Oh the sense of entitlement! The fake rage is positively astounding. Let me remind the ladies and gentlemen of the court that:
1. I always leave plenty of Shopkins on the shelves, for the kiddies (and their methed-out, horrible spelling, parents.)
2. Spitting on someone is considered simple assault (not that ol’ Tweaky cares about the law.)
3. It’s a f*cking toy, dipsh*t.
Sir, calm the f*ck down and go back to teaching your kids how to skip the check at Waffle House.
My friends, today’s post is but the inaugural dispatch in a long and lurid tale of Season 3, AKA my Vietnam. And yes, I know how disrespectful calling it “my Vietnam” is (sorry, Uncle Don!) You see, I’ve got an entire cast of characters and stories both sweet and sour, all of these adventures will be shared with you. Yes, I know I was a week late with this post, but what can I say? Counting all this CHEDDAR takes time and makes my pimp-hand tired.
Please don’t take this tale of plundering and obscene capitalism as an indicator of your potential results. You see, I’ve got this sh*t cornered, and anyone who dare comes in my way, I will punch right in the egg basket.
Coming up, I’m going to introduce you to my fellow gang of toy hustlers: Old Man, Lego Dad, Stroke Survivor, and Charger Dude. As one would expect, the Baroness has a merry court of bizarre people and weird situations to share with you.
Until Next Time,