Bratz

I am pulling the black “spray on” pants over my ankles. So far so good. Now I am wrenching them over my calves…
But no.
My arse will not accommodate this $135 item of clothing.
How the FUCK does Russell Brand fit into these and not me?
I mean, he has a penis for Christ’s sakes.
The girl in cubicle next to mine is giving me the shits as well. Her whiney little Year 10 voice seeps under the door like a malodorous gas.
“So my Mum is like, such a bitch! Like, can you believe it? Who wouldn’t buy their own daughter a formal dress! She’s all like, ‘You can’t have it because its over $400 and we have to get the mortgage paid…’ blah blah blah!”
“Oh my god, I totally understand!” Her equally annoying friend replies from another cubicle. “My Mum is exactly the same. They are sooo selfish! They won’t even let us look good for like, the biggest night of our lives! Don’t they get how important looking good is?”
“Who knows…” Brat No. 1 replies, “I mean, they haven’t looked good in like, forty years or whatever, so they’re probably jealous. My Mum is horrible. She doesn’t know how much she brings down my self-esteem. Do you know she actually called me superficial!”
“No way!” Brat No. 2 exclaims.
“Yes way!”
I violently peel the pants off, chucking them in the corner of the changing room.
Must.
Get.
Out.
I flee the store.
I flee the shopping centre.
Lighting a cigarette in the car park, I realise that Bratz Dolls are not plastic toys. They are alive and roaming our streets.
Beware.