With the unseasonably cold weather, and my chicken-neck in desperate need of cover, I dragged my ass over to H & H for a scarf the other day.

For those not familiar, H & H is the dungeonous West Baltimore valhalla where surplus store inventories go to die. Dusty, disease ridden and antiquated merchandise left over from the first Boar War is arbitrarily crammed from floor to ceiling. I’m half convinced that a significant portion of their stock is left over from the Lewis and Clark expedition. Whenever I’m in there, I’m usually certain that I’m the only patron not living in a halfway house.

I love that store.

Wedged in between tubercular army blankets probably left over from Wounded Knee, I found the perfect scarf for me. Seemingly weaved from a blend of fiberglass, poison sumac twigs and buckshot, it sang out its siren song. It was like my Golden Fleece, except it was drab olive, cheap and itchy; and the only sleepless dragon protecting it was a three hundred pound geriatric store clerk who I like to think was named Stinky. The one task I needed to perform to gain its possession was to pull a buck fifty out of my pocket. No Argonauts, no duplicitous Grecian princesses conspiring for my benefit. Bleh. My life is so boring.

Anyway, after returning from my not so epic journey home through the streets of West Baltimore, I gave my new scarf a thorough examination and read its tag:

Oh my God. My new epic scarf is for retards. I’m not like Jason at all. I’m more like Corky from Life Goes On. Holy Rosemary Kennedy, how’s that for poetic irony?

Oh well. Waddya gonna do? I will say the retard scarf goes perfectly with the winter boots I bought a couple of years ago off a homeless diabetic who was scheduled to have his feet amputated later in the week. In my own defense on that one, they were never worn, just my size, I paid generously, he rented a room for the night with the money I paid him, and HAD NO IDEA he was about to have his feet cut off. Had I known... well, I still would have bought the boots. I probably would have paid more, and felt a little creepy about it, but it still would have been the right thing to do.

So, if you see a man walking down the street wearing a footless man’s boots and a neck scarf for retards, stop and say hello. Not only am I a sharp dresser, I’m also a really nice guy.