Highs at Lowe's / Corey Bedlam

Iron pipes of varying lengths and numerous brackets to secure them, such is my shopping list this evening. 'Shopping' seems an ill-suited term for the task at hand. It's more of a mission. An excursion. 'Shopping' implies perusing music drenched, carpeted aisles for bath mats, dress shoes, pulp free orange juice and the like. 'Shopping' is for bitches.

The pipe I need is an inch and half in diameter, around four or five feet long. It really should be five feet long but, if asked, I'm prepared to say "around four or five feet long" because I want to convey an air of complaisance - that I could be provided with any length of iron pipe and make it work. Just point me in the general direction of the 1 1/2 inch diameter pipes and I can take it from there. If too short I'll fucking weld two pipes together. If too long I'll cut that fucker to the exact measurements I require using some sort of high-powered dangerous saw that will create a barrage sparks which would most certainly sear the retinas of any less experienced saw man if they weren't to don safety goggles which I most assuredly will not.

My cock feels heavier than usual, swinging in my old cargo shorts as I strut down nondescript concrete lanes, each side stacked ceiling high with metal, polyurethane, and untreated lumber.

I know the pipe needs to be an inch and a half in diameter because I brought a sample pipe with me. The sample pipe is about 18 inches long. I carry it in my right hand scoping the terrain for my raw materials, ready to strike at a moment's notice. There's a small hole in the sample pipe that happens to fit my index finger perfectly, giving me the feel of a custom made grip ideal for bludgeoning someone's head in. I briefly entertain beating the next man I see to death because I can. I have that ability. That mentality is right there at my forefront.

My left hand is crudely bandaged with a fist full of gauze and some electrical tape. I cut it trying to slice some aged Parmigiano Reggiano the night before but, if asked, I'm prepared to say I cut it while mounting a rig saw to a saw horse. Or something like that.

I flex my injured hand so I can feel the pain and I pretend my dick is also an inch and a half in diameter.

Soon enough I find my pipe. It was in aisle 47. It's exactly 5 feet long. It's an ugly bastard. It's already got some rust on it. Nothing a little equal parts vegetable oil and salt can't take care of.

Now for those goddamned brackets. I spit on the floor and make my way to aisle 11.