Ever since I was just a wee little dungaree wearing poof I used to watch my father telling the staff how to fix things around the house. What the point of DIY was when you weren’t ACTUALLY doing it yourself is still beyond me, but what I am getting at is that I’ve always wanted to be handy and manly even though I would more willingly help my mother choose which pearls to wear with which mink.
While other boys were out in the woods behind our sprawling estate, blowing up frogs and playing gookie-on-the-cookie, I was in my room imagining obscure ways of mixing paint colours and fabric choices (and picturing the other boys playing gookie-on-the-cookie). Alas, the closest I ever came to actually conducting this kind of skirmish was to, like my father, arrange some staff to move furniture around my apartment and help hang paintings and fix toilets.
This all being said, I pulled myself toward myself one fine Saturday morning and decided to head out to the local Builders Warehouse in the quest to reconnect with my long lost butch inner self. This was going to be a day that involved a wide variety of other activities, some of which are more inclined to be suitable to my delicate nature. These included: visiting the garden center, going out for dinner with two gay couples, schlepping faggoty antiques around town, attending a showing of Iron Man 2, impressing my bitchy friends, and attempting to take a new route to my house without getting lost.
My arrival at Builders Whorehouse, I mean Warehouse was trumpeted by refusing to pay a car guard who asked for a tip upfront or purchase a Boerewors roll at the door. As I stepped through the door I could only stop in my steps, open mouthed and awestruck by this mammoth of a man-store. He was as unflappably balanced as Ginger Rogers in Crocs, as compartmentally voluminous as Leigh Bowery’s fake uterus, more technologically sophisticated than the Michaelhouse second grader, throatier than Linda Lovelace after a bottle of expectorant, and featured staff with evasive moves superior to those of a ANC government official. My visit was also quicker than sex with an over eager teenager, a trait that sadly earned me a license not to speak of the store experience in its entirety.
I recieved more strange looks than a drag queen in a catholic church so I chalked up this drawing-of-unnecessary-attention to my jersey’s colour—a hue that looks not unlike the orgasmic output of the male members of Smurf village.
All of this aside, I must recommend builders whorehouse to ANYONE who is husband shopping. It is DILF (Dad I’d like to F&^@) heaven!! I have never before seen so many beautiful strappingly straight men under one roof handling power tools and many other phallic looking equipment since I stumbled into a Lesbian Bar accidentally one drunken and debaucherous evening. (Soon after finding out they weren’t men).
So after 30 min of roaming around looking more overwhelmed than a housewife at her first Prada sale armed with her husband’s platinum card I was eventually helped by a man that looked as if, due to complications, while being born, arising from a dimensional mismatch between his head and his mother’s woman parts had a ridiculously tiny head on a Trojan horse’s muscular body.
I was reduced to spluttering and going the colour of purple that can only be accurately described as “Battered Wife”. After about a minute of being ridiculously in love I asked him where I could locate a G Spot (The intended object of desire however being a G Clamp). At this stage I was about to soil my Calvin Kleins and NEVER RETURN to this place where I had made a complete tonsil of myself. And if this didn’t cap the entire trip of hilarity, I was nearly accosted a foam-capped, mulleted, red-faced, Redneck stereotype, whom I accidentally cut off in a parking lot (“You asshole!”) Neither incidents I would like to clarify resulted in a court summons.
So in conclusion, depending on what colour you are wearing, your experience at Builders Warehouse may vary.
