Thursday, February 9, 2012

The Spencer's Chronicles: The Final Chronicle

This will be the final entry in my short-lived series: The Spencer's Chronicles. Why? Because my job there was seasonal, and now that the holidays are over, they don't need as many workers any more-- which sucks, since this is the only job I've ever had that registered lower on the "Things I'd Hate To Do" meter than sticking my hand in a reciprocating saw.

I just hope I can find another job before I need to resort to making my own clothing and eating only what I can kill. You don't want to see me chasing a rabbit around my front yard with a golf club.... naked. Trust me, there are better ways to damage your retinas.

Like staring into the sun for instance.

                                                            cybercauldron.co.uk
The most beautiful way to liquify your eyeballs.

Getting back to Spencer's, do any of you know what a plasma ball is? And before you say it, I know that you just looked at a picture of the sun, which is literally a ball of plasma. Way to be a smart ass.

No, a plasma ball is a product that we sell at Spencer's. You've certainly seen one before:


It's a glass ball that uses electricity and noble gases to make you feel like Emperor Palpatine for a couple seconds. You can't really harness the energy to smite your enemies, but science is trying.

I can't tell you how to do anything dangerous with a plasma ball. That would be irresponsible.  So I'm not going to tell you that if you place a penny on top of one and hold a pointy, metal object close to it you will cause the electricity to arc through the air. I won't tell you, but I'll certainly show you.


Putting myself in harm's way-- for science!

But I digress. Just before Christmas, two women were in Spencer's looking at our plasma balls. We have three kinds: the one you see above, one where the orb in the very center is a peace sign, and one where that orb is a marijuana leaf. I overheard a very small portion of their conversation and it went like this:

Woman #1: "Should we get him the peace sign one?"

Woman #2: "I think he would like it, but I don't know if his parents are into all that hippie stuff. What will they think when he opens it on Christmas morning?"

Woman #1: Yeah, you're right. Ooooh! I know! Let's get him the snowflake one!

Woman #2: Yeah! That's a good idea.


Now, my level-minded readers, go back and re-read the three types of plasma ball that we sell. Did I say "snowflake?"


Pictured: Not a snowflake.

They bought it. I can only imagine what that house was like on Christmas morning when little Johnny opened his present from grandma and shrieked: "Oh boy! A snowflake!"

And I love to think about the mortified look on his parents' faces: his father staring with a mixture of anger and horror at his grandmother, and his mother attempting to appear like nothing was wrong saying: "Yes, Johnny. A snowflake. Say thank you to your grandmother."

But they never returned it, which means there's only one way it could've actually played out: Johnny's father smashed it over his grandmother's head in a fit of rage. Regardless of grandma's fate, the shattered plasma ball could never be returned.

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