Victoria’s Secret is the devil, and I ain’t never going back.
For one, they write “PINK” on most of their clothes. Even clothes that aren’t pink have “PINK” written all over them. If I wore green sweatpants with “PINK” written on the butt, every color blind person that peeped my donk would get all confused and sad, probably. And if I know anything, it’s that anyone who cares to peep my weirdly-wide-grossly-flat donk doesn’t need anymore confusion and sadness in their lives.
Secondly, Victoria’s Secret markets boyshorts as sexy and hip. Not boxers — which would at least be comfortable — boyshorts, the most terrible undergarment ever invented. I’d rather wear a pair of one-size-too-small, machine-dried, denim thongs than boyshorts. Not only do they leave underpant lines, but they give mega wedgies, too. Unless shoving my hands down my pants to dislodge my boyshorts from my booty is sexy and hip, Victoria should stop lying to her customers.
Finally their employees don’t wear uniforms. That can sometimes cause problems.
Last week, my sister Meg and I went to the Victoria’s Secret at the Warwick Mall. As we walked around the store, I got progressively angrier about their silly clothes and dishonest boyshorts. So angry, in fact, that I choked on my drink and spit a mouthful of drool and water all over the floor.
Even though no one saw it, I felt I should tell an employee. The floors in those stores are awful slick, and the edges of the displays are awful sharp — what if someone lost an eye? I didn’t want that shiz on my conscience!
When I didn’t see an employee right away, however, I figured my conscience could handle some shiz. So, my sister and I left.
Then, my conscience playa hated on shiz and asked me to go back to tell someone. I told Meg BRB and went back into the store. I spotted one of the workers taking underpants inventory and ran over to her. Doing my best to cover the wet spots on my T-shirt, I told her what happened.
“Hi, I just want to let you know that I spit some water on the floor over by the bras.”
The girl, dressed in black like every other Victoria’s Secret employee in the world, stared at me with a look equal parts confusion and disgust. I could tell I’d made a mistake.
“You don’t work here, huh?”
She shook her head no. I looked at the girl next to her, who I also thought was an employee, and asked the same question. She shook her head, too.
Embarrassed they thought I was bragging about my drool puddle, I played it off by pretending I was doing them a favor.
“Yeah… so don’t slip in it, okay guys?”
And, like I said, I’m never going back.