Today I got to go to the bi-annual Colgate University Salvage Sale. My boss and I went because we were looking for some odds and ends for the library, magazine racks and such. I also was hoping to find some furniture and the like for my new apartment.
A lot, and I do mean A LOT of the stuff sucked. Old, manky, icky and slightly smelly. Why on earth would anyone bid on a decrepit, sunken love seat that smells like the asses of decades worth of college students? I'm not that desperate. I did bid on a set of lockers because I think it would be hella cool to use them as a bookcase.
But, here's the scary bit, the "Oh my god, I think I tinkled a little in fear" bit. The salvage sale is in a warehouse, which, from the looks of it, has acquired great amounts of Colgate student cast-offs, old CDs, water bottles, broken TVs, computer monitors and even student art projects.
So, my boss and I step through the door, past the scary people with no teeth eyeing the ass-couch, past the farmers playing with the old golf cart and, there, on the wall, above the piles of used laboratory glassware, was the most horrific sight I have ever seen, even more frightening than the clown head that sits sinisterly on top of the bookcases in the work room at the university library.
I grabbed my boss's arm and squeaked in horror. "Look! Look!" I shrieked and pointed. It was a 15 foot painting of Richard Simmons, I shit you not. Let me elaborate, it was A FIFTEEN FOOT PORTRAIT OF RICHARD SIMMONS LEERING AT US FROM THE WALL.
Every detail, from his tragic white man's afro, to his manic smile, to his tiny little sequined shorts was recreated in loving detail, broad strokes of bright tempra on canvas.
My boss and I stared at it in horror and tried to move away, but his eyes followed us around the warehouse, cooly appraising us as we looked for magazine racks and avoided the inbreds.
We fled as quickly as we could, feeling his evil little eyes boring into our backs as we ran out of the warehouse.
Why, why, why would anyone feel the need to paint a big ass portrait of Richard Simmons? WHY? It wasn't even on velvet.
Shudder. I don't think I'll ever feel clean again, no matter how many showers I take. I have been tainted by the Simmons Funk. 'Tis only a matter of time now before I pull on some bright pink spandex, begin sweating copiously and hugging random fat people I see on the street.
