the mizzzle

Me and my boyz, Glock-9 and T-zizzie-Cragdangle, we went down to the Potomac Mills Outlet Mizzle to shop for some clothes-izzle.

Glock-9 was all, "Check da delicate mall ecosystem, G!" (I don't know why he always calls me "G," because he knows my name is spelled with a "J," not a "G." Truthfully, I've never pursued the issue because I don't want to seem hyper-critical. Glock-9 has an overbearing father and is very sensitive to criticism. That and milk. He's lactose intolerant. And I believe that sushi gives him an upset tummy, too.)

But he had a good point. The ecosystem of the mall is unlike any other sociological system on the planet. Much like the dense, upper canopy of the tropical rain forest, the mall (or "mizzle" system, as Glock-9 so eloquently puts it) plays host to a number of bottom feeders (like the diet pill cart) and the herbivores (such as the plant-extract designer bathroom products stores whose labeling trumpets "no animal testing!" as if it were a mating call).

The little Vietnamese girls chirping and shouting into their cell phones, sitting on those director's chairs... the sounds of there language are so uncomfortable. It makes me want to bark a little bit so I can make them listen to how ugly it sounds. Yeah, yeah, I know that's culturally insensitive of me. (T-zizzie-Cragdangle always admonishes me of that. He's so culturally aware. I think it's because of all the marijuana. Or maybe it's that cultural sensitivity training that IBM makes him take.)

I buy clothes at Nordstrom's, H&M and L.L. Bean. Glock-9 and T-zizzie-Cragdangle mostly get stuff at Sports Authority and L.L. Bean. Our tastes overlap sometimes. But I get upset when they won't share their honey mustard-dipped soft pretzel with me. (Glock-9 buys one from the cutely named "Twist Again" shop at the food court. T-zizzie-Cragdangle stops at the coin-operated shiatzu machine and offers to let me sit down during his 3-minute session.

How completely delightful! For his generosity, I offer him a bite of my DQ blizzard. Yum. But he refuses, saying that butter fingers don't agree with his waifish figure. That wacky T-zizie-Cragdangle! I remind him that he has to be nice with me. He's wearing his "Never shoot whites after labor day" T-shirt. (I guess that sensitivity training only goes so far!)

Before long, Glock-9 tells me that he has to go -- the partner's meeting is going to gear up in half an hour and he's got to grab some pastries for the partners!

I bid him goodbye. T-zizzie-Cragdangle soon has to leave, too. His gay hoodsta bridge club is about to meet. I'm off to the "LIE-bary," as Glock-9 likes to call it.

What a fun day at the mizzzle!