As he wades through the buildings towards the center of town

So Christina calls me up to the registers today. "Betsi," she says, "You gotta help this guy shop for a suit (psst I think he's mostly blind just help him out ok)."

Oh crap. I hate this sort of thing. I can shop for myself, I can shop for, like, halloween costumes, but other people? Aggggggggh. But I'm stuck for it. I turn to the guy, smiling, and realize this is going to be tougher than I thought as he stares back at me with two crazed eyes. Or rather, one eye examined something directly to the left while the other spun in tight circles vaguely in my direction. He grinned, toothlessly, and farted softly as he walked behind me to the men's suits, where he proceeded to demand that I read him the inner label of every single suit, especially the "Made in _____" part that most of them didn't even have. He settled on a stunning green polyester number. "Now I need a shirt," he barked, and I hurriedly scurried off to the right aisle, and then to shoes, and socks, and ties, and belts, and wallets, and fax machines, and telephones, and dog sweaters, with Tim Burton's vision of Mr. Magoo close at my heels all the while.

This is why I do not support time travel as a scientific endeavor. Because seriously, if some time during my developmental years it had come to my attention that I would one day be playing Vergil to these demented Dantes, I would not be blogging right now. I would probably be wandering thrift stores and cackling as my eyes rolled madly in their sockets.

That's kind of what I'm doing anyway, come to think of it.