Just because it's old doesn't mean it's worth my time, Grandpa.

Some people suck at flower arranging; others are terrible at assembling displays in antique stores. We're all hacks at something.

I admittedly read too much into disorganized items while shopping. I chuckle to myself when I find discarded merchandise on strange shelves, and I smirk when fate finds the time to bring together two things destined to be together forever. But antique shops take things to a whole other level. An antique mall near my house has about a hundred different stalls with personal collections of a whole bunch of weirdos. (I take that back; there were probably 15 collections that didn't scream INSANITY the instant my eyeballs lighted on them. Maybe 16.)

I am going to attempt to interpret a few pictures I took while cruising (I am definitely not buying these "antiques" -- I'll spend pocket change for a stupid book on teaching your cat tricks but I am not going to throw away $75 on a pinstrosity or bad life decision).

First up:

Um...

Welcome to the Miami Heat locker room?

This next one's going to take a little bit more creativity.
 

So, what do we have here:

• Old wheelchair
• Cocktail Hour sign
• Helmet
• Shiner Bock sign

So you figure after mixing beer and liquor crazy things are gonna happen. An hour in, your friends insist you put on a bicycle helmet in case your unsteady feet fall out from underneath you. Keep in mind that while they'd rather you didn't bust your head open and kill the mood, they are simultaneously laying the concern on pretty thick and laughing at your stupid ass at the same time as you strap that helmet on. (Can't you see how retarded she is?) By the time you and your flock stumble out of the bar (last call, out of money at 1am, etc.) you're all pretty much wasted. Someone glimpses a rickety wheelchair near a dumpster and dumps you into the chair (none of the drunken crowd realizing it's soaked in urine until you wake up the next afternoon). They take turns pushing you as fast as they can...until you come to the curb, where you're promptly dumped out into the street. Thank God you had that helmet.