Chapter 3 - A New Shirt
So, Pooh stopped to buy a new shirt on the way home from brunch that day. He brought a tummy-high pile of red shirts into the dressing room and quickly shed his too-small red tee.
He muscled the first one, a polo-style short sleeve with an alligator on the chest, over his head. Being a bear, he wasn't too keen on an alligator being so close to his face, but the alligator appeared to be sleeping (albeit, with its mouth open). He supposed this was alright. With the fresh shirt snugged down, Pooh took a look in the mirror.
Frat douche, thought Pooh. I look like a frat douche.
He wriggled free of the shirt in a wiggle or two and deposited it on the dressing room floor. He didn't like alligators anywhoo.
He took the second shirt and gave it the once-over, this one a button down. The tag inside said it belonged to someone named Ed Hardy. He wondered if Ed knew Christopher Robin.
Sleeve, sleeve, button button button (Christ, there were a lot of buttons) button button button. He turned to look in the mirror.
Date rape and Jersey Shore re-runs. That was the only thing Pooh could think. That, and there wasn't enough coke in the world to make Ed's shirt look good. Ed joined the douche shirt on the dressing room floor.
As Pooh got ready to slip the third red shirt on, his cell phone rang. Tigger. Still hungover, Pooh wasn't much in the mood for Tigger’s brand of bouncy-bouncy, fun fun fun fun fun. While Roo was a bit of a whiner, Tigger was more of a narcissist. Who the hell runs around yelling, "I'm the only one!"? He was one-man show on blow, tho. Yet, he pushed the call to voicemail.
Over his head and his rumbly tumbly went the third shirt, a soft red t-shirt whose label said James Perse. Damn, though Pooh, as he checked his reflection. This is reaaaal niiize. Pooh ran his Pooh Paws over the soft material, seeing how it clung to his belly while being forgiving all at once. He felt swank -- like a swank-ass bear. And it has been a long time since he'd felt like a swank-ass bear.
He left the other shirts in a pile on the floor and walked right to the register, still wearing James' shirt. Regrets, James -- you're going to have to find another shirt because this one now belongs to Winnie the Fucking Pooh. He told the cashier, "Ring this up. I'm wearing it out," and handed her his AMEX black card.
Swipe. Paw print. He was out the door.
Yes, he felt like a swank-ass bear. And it was going to be a good day.