I adore outdoor flea markets. When Sunday comes, I can’t wait to go out that door and plunge into the deafening mishmash of varied people and objects. But I only like those street stalls where clothes are piled up high in heaps, everything in a mess. Rummaging through the piles of clothing is indispensable for me. I need to use both hands, mechanical-digger style, to dig up buried treasures. As I can’t bear fashion impositions, buying quality clothes at flea markets enables me to wear rout-of-season garments, unique and classic, not trendy items. And I can also find other colors, different from the ones that are currently popular. I absolutely refuse to wear the clothes that a bunch of affected daffodils try to impose on me.
The most uncomfortable clothes are made for women. Not to mention shoes. Besides, the fashion industry is full of conspiracies. The most common are the partnerships between physicians and fashion designers. The designers of those modern, extremely pointed toes (“LICK-MY-POINTY-TIP-SHOES!) (WHAT CROOKS THEY ARE!!!) allied themselves, in an unpunished brotherhood, with orthopedic surgeons. For each bunion the latter operate on, the former are paid substantial commissions.
Do you think I am so stupid that I would ruin my feet putting on those torture instruments, by any chance? I definitely am not, but there are thousands of women who are. Come on, notice those forced grimaces this bunch of poor wretches, who stuff their hooves in such an abominable invention, endeavor (in vain) to pass off as genuine smiles. And, to top it all, they willingly pay megabucks they don’t really have.
More examples of infernal alliances are given below. They illustrate constant malevolent undercurrents that keep us subjugated:
- Wicked duo made up of super skinny jeans designers and liposuction clinics (I know on good authority that surgeons also receive a percentage for the cases of dry gangrene).
- Profitable collaboration between crop top designers and tattoo and piercing studios.
- Fatal quartet made up of hairdressers, human hair extension suppliers, the Association of Legitimate Descendants of Apache Indians and manufacturers specialized in oral medication, ointments and creams for hair loss.
- Super evil quintet made up of the World Health Organization (WHO), bleaching cream manufacturers, the Worldwide Association of Greengrocers, dermatologists and gloves and socks manufacturers. Everyone ends up pocketing a tidy sum!
Notice the vile subtlety in that clique’s line of conduct: wolf down a lot of beta carotene- rich foods (WHO tells us… and this is not a comedy routine like the one made famous by Abbott and Costello)- we blindly obey WHO (again, this is not another comedy routine) to become the healthiest person alive- HYPERCAROTENEMIA!!!!- a visit to a private dermatologist (I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for you to be sent to a specialist by your social security family doctor)-a visit to the nearest pharmacy to buy a bleaching solution- you buy gloves, fingerless gloves and socks to hide the orange hue on the palms of your hands and soles of your feet.
(N.B. Sometimes the Albacete Association of Cutlery also joins this sinister entente, because the most recent researches have proved that in certain extreme cases (no remedy), people who can’t be clean white-palmed people end up committing suicide. Their favorite method is gutting oneself in the stomach with a knife).
In the light of the issue, I hate boutiques. I usually dig out real nice clothes from under those piles for a ridiculous price. Besides, small-sized clothes are not very demanded. They wait for me patiently. Come with mom, I tell them! My extreme thinness spares me conflict with the triceratops that rummage around me through the same piles of clothing.
However, last Sunday, I had to leave the flea market earlier than usual. Some gypsy stall holders soured my morning. I was rummaging through the piles in my frantic manner, like a Siberian Husky, my head sunk deep into the mountain of fabric, when I couldn’t help overhearing a conversation between two gypsy men.
What an enormous effort it was to understand what they were saying! Only comparable to the expenditure of energy of Champollion breaking the code of the Rosetta Stone! Below, the conversation translated to an understandable English:
Gypsy A (to his wife, sat by his side, in a beach chair, drinking coke. She is a thirty-year-old grandma, dressed all in black. A tight, jet black bun on top of her head, heavy thick gold earrings through her ears. Her breasts, opulent, immense, like Amacord’s tobacconist’s.
“ You, old and ugly woman. What a basilisk! You scare me so much! Look at those legs. They have bone spavin!!!”. And he laughs his head off at his own remark. His wife doesn’t make one peep, just smiles and carries on drinking coke.
Gypsy B (to Gypsy A): “Mine is much worse, buddy. Not only an old, ugly, crook-nosed crone with bone spavins on her hocks, but also a fat whale. How she loves to pig out greasy stews!» And he points in the direction of his other half’s king-size belly with his pudgy gold-ringed finger. The gypsy woman, another grandma of 30 years old, keeps quiet, agrees and laughs. Gypsy A roars with laughter at his pal’s witticism. Gypsy B interrupts his chat to chug beer, and then he resumes his scintillating conversation with his friend, always in the same line of thought.
My hot-headed nature drives me, in these cases, to brandish a hazelnut stick and beat them with all my might on the back. I don’t know the penalty that the Spanish law imposes in cases involving the taming of exotic beasts openly on the street, so I kept quiet, held myself back and went home, carrying two heavy plastic bags with great effort: the fruit of my clothes-rummaging serendipity.