I hate discount retailers. But I go begrudgingly to the discount retailer because I do things for the pretty girl I love who always loves a bargain.

The discount retailer offers nothing of value for anybody. The girl I love marches off to the women’s things and I find myself in the men’s section, dodging lower-class people as they clamor for cheap stuff. Two men argue over a leather jacket.

I make my way to the men’s shoes. I fantasize about seeing the girl I love naked as my eyes gloss over countless pairs of misfit footwear that seem like death row inmates awaiting imminent execution.

But I spot, accidentally, in an unmarked shoebox, a single Ferragamo loafer that, presumably, even I can afford. My X-rated fantasy vanishes and I excitedly snatch up the loafer. I search for its mate. I search everywhere. I ask an unhelpful sales associate to find its mate. He rolls his eyes: “Sorry, I guess it’s lost.”

I attack the sales associate. The police arrive and I’m arrested. I don’t know where she is–the girl I love.

I’m issued prison garb–shirt, pants, loafers. The shirt and pants are awful, but the loafers aren’t so bad.