In the bay area, single men need not despair. Leering out from the back of any newspaper is that ubiquitous yellow, red and black strumpet, that fiendish hussy who knows exactly when the last paycheck was deposited.
We’re talking about Fry’s Electronics.
She’s a clever little wench, that one. She recognizes her mark and caters to every twisted, jaded, and unscrupulous testosterone niche. She knows I like my memory unbuffered, mixed, and dirt cheap. Her magazine racks of cars, sex, and techie gadgets dizzy the wandering eye. Languishing at her mouth is the long and hapless return line that serves a warning to those who would dare voice their dissatisfaction. Inside, rows of ice cold drinks solicit an in-store sip, knowing you’ll drink it all after the playful tease. Further on, a multitude of “massage” tools innocently eye their would be customers. On one hand she’s stacked with books, while on the other hand, seamy specials vie for illicit attention, as gleaming floor models hawk their best features in the musky din of her high tech Gomorrah.
Petite, black, white, flat, curvy, upright, stacked, plug’n'play, natural, large. She’s got something for everyone. Just when you think you’ve almost got it all, you look around and realize you’re surrounded by unkempt, deluded, and hollow shells of masculinity waiting in line to be cashiered.