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| Oakleys Scare the Shit Out of Me |
| So this is what happened to the Go-Bots. |
The other day, while blundering through an outlet mall in search of a reason for
being there, I came upon an Oakley outlet. I’ve always liked Oakleys, as they seem
to fit my face better than most sunglasses (which leads me to believe that most
sunglasses are designed for the hideously ugly). I hadn’t checked out their goods in
quite some time, so I decided to see what Oakley’s been up to lately. After thirty
seconds in the store, I can only assume that they hired H.R. Geiger as their head of
product design.
A scant few years ago, when I became emancipated from my prescription
eyeglasses and became, once more, a consumer of sunglasses, you could saunter up
to the counter of your local Sunglass Hut and find a rather mundane assortment of
wares. Sunglasses served two purposes: protecting your eyes from the sun and
keeping your parents in the dark about your ganja habit. They generally consisted of
a frame and two pieces of darkened glass, and sometimes a little string to keep them
from falling off. But apparently, this wasn’t enough for today’s sunglass aficionado.
There’s no point in reducing glare unless you can scare the shit out of people at the
same time.
Seriously, when I walked into the Oakley company store I thought for a second I’d
accidentally stumbled into George Lucas’ prop storage. Surrounded by an array of
weird, alien-looking hunks of deformed plastic, I stood in the middle of the store,
dumbfounded. All of these contraptions looked more like torture devices than
sunglasses. I briefly imagined trying a pair on, but then I realized plastic blades would
pop out of secret compartments and gouge my eyes out, and then some alien embryo
would crawl through my eye sockets into my brain and pilot my body around and
nobody would be able to tell because my gaping facial wounds would be covered up
by a huge freaking pair of sunglasses.
It was obvious to me now: Oakley was really a front for invading aliens, hell-bent on
enslaving Earth’s population and taking advantage of our natural resources, like oil
and Yoo-Hoo. Well, there was no way I’d ever allow a bunch of bug-eyed freaks to
jeopardize my ability to walk down to my local gas station and buy a refreshing,
chocolatey beverage. Sure, it’s probably made out of old tires and deer parts, and
getting the chocolate deposits out of the bottom of the bottle can be annoying, and I
really, really, really hate the color yellow (except on fruit. I heart bananas), but God
damn it, I love the stuff. Nothing says America to me like a big ass bottle of Yoo-
Hoo. You think France would invent a beverage like that? You do? Well, then you
thought wrong! Yoo-Hoo is just as American as apple pies, baseball, and killing
homeless people for shits and giggles, if not more so. If God was thirsty for
chocolate milk, and didn’t feel like pouring chocolate syrup in a glass of regular milk
and having to stir it, or creating a chocolate cow that only gave chocolate milk, or
snapping his fingers and having a glass of real chocolate milk just appear right in front
of him, he’d probably drink Yoo-Hoo.
I suddenly realized I was drooling on myself and still standing in the middle of the
Oakley outlet. What the hell was I thinking, having daydreams about Yoo-Hoo in the
middle of enemy territory? I needed to get out, and fast. I started to back towards
the exit, casting a wary eye around the store.
Suddenly, a voice hissed “Can I help you?”
I whirled around towards the source of the noise and struck my best kung-fu pose.
A sales clerk stood behind me, a kid of no more than seventeen with a big smile and
a bigger pair of sunglasses on his face. He was obviously one of them. I quickly
pulled out my prescription dynamite and shoved a stick right through his shades into
the eye socket. He screamed in pain, I lit the fuse and kicked him into a rack of
messenger bags. While he struggled to free himself, I ran for the parking lot. I dove
for cover under a GMC Jimmy and plugged my ears. Shortly a tremendous explosion
rocked the outlet mall. Crawling from underneath my hiding place, I saw a pillar of
fire and black smoke where the Oakley outlet had been. Happily, the Ann Taylor
outlet next to the Oakley store had caught on fire as well. Knowing that I had single-
handedly (shark attack) saved the world from an alien invasion and myself from
having to spend any more time shopping, I vowed to go to the corner store and pick
up the biggest bottle of Yoo-Hoo I could find.
Unfortunately, when I got to the store they only had strawberry-flavored Yoo-Hoo. It
made me so mad I beat the guy behind the counter to death with a tire iron. I know
that might sound a little extreme, but if he didn’t have any real Yoo-Hoo in stock he
was obviously in league with the aliens.
being there, I came upon an Oakley outlet. I’ve always liked Oakleys, as they seem
to fit my face better than most sunglasses (which leads me to believe that most
sunglasses are designed for the hideously ugly). I hadn’t checked out their goods in
quite some time, so I decided to see what Oakley’s been up to lately. After thirty
seconds in the store, I can only assume that they hired H.R. Geiger as their head of
product design.
A scant few years ago, when I became emancipated from my prescription
eyeglasses and became, once more, a consumer of sunglasses, you could saunter up
to the counter of your local Sunglass Hut and find a rather mundane assortment of
wares. Sunglasses served two purposes: protecting your eyes from the sun and
keeping your parents in the dark about your ganja habit. They generally consisted of
a frame and two pieces of darkened glass, and sometimes a little string to keep them
from falling off. But apparently, this wasn’t enough for today’s sunglass aficionado.
There’s no point in reducing glare unless you can scare the shit out of people at the
same time.
Seriously, when I walked into the Oakley company store I thought for a second I’d
accidentally stumbled into George Lucas’ prop storage. Surrounded by an array of
weird, alien-looking hunks of deformed plastic, I stood in the middle of the store,
dumbfounded. All of these contraptions looked more like torture devices than
sunglasses. I briefly imagined trying a pair on, but then I realized plastic blades would
pop out of secret compartments and gouge my eyes out, and then some alien embryo
would crawl through my eye sockets into my brain and pilot my body around and
nobody would be able to tell because my gaping facial wounds would be covered up
by a huge freaking pair of sunglasses.
It was obvious to me now: Oakley was really a front for invading aliens, hell-bent on
enslaving Earth’s population and taking advantage of our natural resources, like oil
and Yoo-Hoo. Well, there was no way I’d ever allow a bunch of bug-eyed freaks to
jeopardize my ability to walk down to my local gas station and buy a refreshing,
chocolatey beverage. Sure, it’s probably made out of old tires and deer parts, and
getting the chocolate deposits out of the bottom of the bottle can be annoying, and I
really, really, really hate the color yellow (except on fruit. I heart bananas), but God
damn it, I love the stuff. Nothing says America to me like a big ass bottle of Yoo-
Hoo. You think France would invent a beverage like that? You do? Well, then you
thought wrong! Yoo-Hoo is just as American as apple pies, baseball, and killing
homeless people for shits and giggles, if not more so. If God was thirsty for
chocolate milk, and didn’t feel like pouring chocolate syrup in a glass of regular milk
and having to stir it, or creating a chocolate cow that only gave chocolate milk, or
snapping his fingers and having a glass of real chocolate milk just appear right in front
of him, he’d probably drink Yoo-Hoo.
I suddenly realized I was drooling on myself and still standing in the middle of the
Oakley outlet. What the hell was I thinking, having daydreams about Yoo-Hoo in the
middle of enemy territory? I needed to get out, and fast. I started to back towards
the exit, casting a wary eye around the store.
Suddenly, a voice hissed “Can I help you?”
I whirled around towards the source of the noise and struck my best kung-fu pose.
A sales clerk stood behind me, a kid of no more than seventeen with a big smile and
a bigger pair of sunglasses on his face. He was obviously one of them. I quickly
pulled out my prescription dynamite and shoved a stick right through his shades into
the eye socket. He screamed in pain, I lit the fuse and kicked him into a rack of
messenger bags. While he struggled to free himself, I ran for the parking lot. I dove
for cover under a GMC Jimmy and plugged my ears. Shortly a tremendous explosion
rocked the outlet mall. Crawling from underneath my hiding place, I saw a pillar of
fire and black smoke where the Oakley outlet had been. Happily, the Ann Taylor
outlet next to the Oakley store had caught on fire as well. Knowing that I had single-
handedly (shark attack) saved the world from an alien invasion and myself from
having to spend any more time shopping, I vowed to go to the corner store and pick
up the biggest bottle of Yoo-Hoo I could find.
Unfortunately, when I got to the store they only had strawberry-flavored Yoo-Hoo. It
made me so mad I beat the guy behind the counter to death with a tire iron. I know
that might sound a little extreme, but if he didn’t have any real Yoo-Hoo in stock he
was obviously in league with the aliens.
Comments? Email me at JimiChanga@SurlyTaco.com
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