Old Navy. "Shopping is fun again."

What they're is implying is that poor people can now shop without worrying about their budget because their product is so cheap.

The difference between "shopping is fun" and "shopping is fun again" is immense. The former is a juvenile statement, like "Candy is sweet." At most the statement could be stretched into the teenage domain, similar to "kissing is fun." The latter statement changes the entire complexion of the phrase. Shopping once was fun, then it wasn't. Now it is (or will be, as long as you shop at Old Navy.) again. This begs two logical questions, what time period or mind state are they referring to where shopping was once fun, and what time period are they referring to where shopping wasn't fun? Both states need to exist; fun carefree shopping and drudgerous penny-pinching, worrisome shopping; for the "again" to make sense internally within that phrase.

The best answer to that question, given Old Navy's target customer audience, is that shopping was fun for you when you were a child with your parents when you had no conception of a living on a budget. Then shopping became painful when you discovered how hard it was to make ends meet, where every purchase that isn't absolutely necessary (and even those) are viewed the way a gambler views cutting their losses--a necessary evil. Now you can behave like a child (again) because Old Navy's clothes are so made-by-children cheap that you won't have to worry about your budget at all.


The building is located at the corner of three main arteries of a major city in Massachusetts. Large white edifice that spans the entire half block. The ground floor is basically a large very wide hallway with the obligatory security desk in front--all the rent-a-cop does is say "hi" to you (....as if that will deter terrorists. I suppose they're working under the assumption that terrorists don't speak English and aren't friendly) however. Before the benign "hi" it occurred to me that I might be asked to produce identification. Which I couldn't do because I don't have a license. It also occurred to me that my swollen disfigured finger is positive identification more damning than a tattoo. I asked him where the Department of Industrial Accidents was located and he told me--so basically he's a receptionist. The "department" is just a waiting room with a receptionist and some offices. Here's an axiom: whenever you see well groomed men in nice suits talking to men in bad fitting suits or streetclothes, you're seeing lawyers talking to clients. That's the scene in the Department of Industrial Accidents. But unlike a courtroom, this is not a situation where "the man" is coming down on joe-criminal. This scene portrays joe-criminal, who got hurt at his shitty menial job, vying for "the man's" pity-money handouts.

I check-in with the receptionist and take a seat. Oh! There's my lawyer. I greet him, shake hands, he looks at my finger (for only the second time--most of our "work" has been over the phone) and says, one moment please. He ushers me into an office where two men are seated, one behind a desk. So three of us are seated in front of a black gentleman's desk like parents and child before a principal. Greetings are exchanged and they want to see my finger. No one notices it when they shake my hand or upon first impression. My lawyer says show them, I whip it out and drop it on the table like a handgun. All I do is extend my hand in a similar way as a handshake. No one notices then even though they get to touch it, but everyone (even Doctors and these Insurance people ) are taken aback. My right pinkie finger is simply huge. It was crushed by a good-sized oak table last February. But now that everyone's attention is focused on my fingers, they easily can see what was right before their eyes. My lawyer presents them with figures, produced by my Doctor, for my settlement. Basically any injury sustained at work which has permenent lasting debilitating effects entitles the worker to a cash settlement. Unfortunately there is no pay out for pain and suffering. They pay for the scar according to inchage, as per a formula. They pay for loss of function as a total loss in relation to your person. Your pinkie finger is one percent of your total person. My Doctor claims that I lost 14% of that finger's function. Thus I lost 14% of one percent, which according to federal worker's compensation law is worth $360. If $360 is 14%, then 100% is $2571.43. So if I lost one-hundred percent function of my pinkie finger (on my dominant hand) because of a work injury, I'd get about two-and-a-half grand. That $2571 is one percent of your total person. Therefore the "total person" is worth $257,143. A person rendered totally useless after an injury at work, a complete vegetable, run over by a forklift, will get a quarter of a million dollars.

Sauerkraut was renamed "liberty cabbage," dachshunds "liberty hounds" and German measles "liberty measles" by Americans during WWI, in their denunciation of all things German.

Please pass the freedom fries.


From "Conan The Destroyer"
Zula: "I swear that if Conan will let me ride with him, I will give my life for him."
Conan: "We shall see."