The Palisades Mall: Death Star Of Suburbia

A few years back they opened a monstrosity of a mall not far from my house: four floors, an ice-rink, and enough sweat-shop quality merchandise to make Indonesia the powerhouse that it is today. Seriously, the tag of every item of clothing that comes out of that place should read, “Made lovingly at gun point by starving 10-year-olds.”

The place is perhaps the largest man-made disaster since Star Jones. In searching desperately for a location, they finally decided on a place 6 miles up the road from the other mall, and in the middle of a swamp. I kid you not: the west side of the mall is literally sinking each year. It’s as if God, looking down, has finally taken an interest in thwarting the ever-expanding evils of Rockland County.

In staying with the “worst location ever” theme, there is a large section of land in the middle of the acres upon acres of parking lot that is not paved. “Why?” you ask. “What could be more important than building a decadent monument to consumerism and poor taste?” It seems that there was a small interest that would not sell their land: a veteran’s cemetery.

At this point, you have to wonder what the fuck the builders were thinking. It’s like they were trying to build a mall based on all the horror movies they’d ever seen.

So, the mall is sinking, located in a stinking swamp, a stone’s throw from the old mall, all while violating the memories of a group of dead veterans. As far as first impressions go, that’s a tough one to overcome. It’s like breaking the ice with your girlfriend’s parents by professing your love of necrophilia.

The inside is giant, ugly, tough to navigate and about as dry as Barbara Bush’s snatch. Migrant, Arizona dust farmers have an easier time staying hydrated than anyone who spends 20 minutes in that hell-hole. I heard they used it as a training ground for troops about to be shipped to Iraq on how to survive desert environments.

One time I was shopping there with a group of friends. We had been there for about three hours and I refused, out of principle, to buy any beverages from the vending stores in the mall. I figured as long as I was supporting evil anyway, I might as well try to minimize it. By the end of the three hours I could barely open my eyes. Each blink was accompanied by a sound that I’d associate with tearing duct-tape off the roof of a shanty. I was pretty sure that I was going to drop dead at any second.

So we all went to a local diner. We sat down at a booth that had a large pitcher of water. However, there were no glasses in sight. Finally, in my last effort before I crumbled into a mound of dust and blew away on the next gust of wind, I grabbed the pitcher and proceeded to drain half of it without taking a breath. When I came up for air I noticed two things:

1. Water had a far more bleach-like after-taste than I remembered.
2. The bus-boy was looking at me as if he discovered me violating the corpse of a week-dead goat

I placed the pitcher back on the table, and, without saying a word, he took it, dropped a dirty rag in it, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

At my age, walking through the mall is an experience that leaves me feeling dirtier than the urinal in a Bangkok whore-house. At some point in time, (long after I had turned too old to take advantage of it, I might add), it somehow became standard practice for barely pubescent girls to dress in clothing that would make a transsexual street-walker blush.

Tiny tank-tops that say “dirty, cum-craving skank” and tight little ass-pants that say, “I want you to rape me in a dumpster behind a bar” are apparently the height of fashion. After spending 20 minutes walking through the mall you suddenly develop an overwhelming empathy for pedophiles. Girls who can’t be a day over 13 are dressed like they moonlight as strippers. It’s enough to make any man say, “sweet statutory!”

However, if Star Wars taught us nothing else, it’s that all evil things have a single, tiny, flaw in their design. And just like the Death Star, I’ve discovered the mall’s one fatal weakness.

I was walking on the fourth floor one day, looking at the thong riding up on the ass of a 10 year old girl, when I felt the entire floor vibrate. I stopped and retraced my steps. Sure enough, when I reached the same spot again and set my foot down, the entire floor shook. In light of everything the mall had inflicted on me, my community, and the memories of a group of veterans whose grave now overlooks a Cheesecake Factory, I think my next action was duly measured and justified. I immediately began jumping up and down.

In the span of about 15 seconds I was surrounded by three mall cops. It would seem I was not the first to discover the one spot with which to rid the County of this eye-sore. I doubt I’ll be the last. What I will say is that if you ever hear tell of a rag-tag group of rebels assembled to make a plucky counter-attack to forever free Rockland of evil, you’ll know who was behind it.

May the Force be with us.