Journal of a Christmas shopping trip:
* 10 a.m.: Arrive at mall. The place is packed. A woman in a Lincoln cuts me off and noses into a handicapped parking spot. She gets out and sprints for the entrance faster than Florence Griffith-Joyner.
Way to go, lady. Why should all the people in wheelchairs get the good parking, right?
I end up parking somewhere out in Pennsylvania near a Dumpster.
* 10:10 a.m.: The mall has all the calm of a street bazaar in Marrakech.
Loud throngs of teens with green hair and nose rings elbow each other into store windows. Hollow-eyed husbands laden with packages trail listlessly behind chatty, energized wives. Children scream. Babies wail.
I find a water fountain and knock back a couple of Bayer. Must steel myself for what lies ahead.
* 10:15 a.m.: Good God, we're all doomed! Santa just arrived at his Workshop. The crowd of eager kids jacked up on Cocoa Puffs and amoxicillin surges forward. One of Santa's "elves" is nearly poleaxed by an excited mom swinging around her Sony camcorder while filming little Jennifer.
Santa himself has that deer-in-the-headlights look. You can almost see him thinking: "I should've taken that job at Taco Bell."
This is scary -- like watching a British soccer crowd before the lagers kick in.
* 10:45 a.m.: Well, that didn't take long. Just had my first brush with the Handholding Couple from Hell. This is the pimply faced young man and woman who make it clear to approaching pedestrians that they are simply too much in love to permit the union of his sweaty hand and hers to be broken. Others will simply have to go around them.
I managed to duck out of their way, but the elderly man behind me nearly got yoked off his feet.
Gotta stay awake, old-timer. These people have no conscience.
* 11 a.m.: I wander into the Nature Store. This is the home office for thoughtful, environmentally correct gifts such as pre-wrapped redwood bird feeders, Bali wind chimes, Rain Forest Crunch candy, etc.
It's probably not the place to ask for that picture of the poker-playing dogs. I buy an astronomy guidebook for the 9-year-old off a man who, coincidentally, looks eerily like Carl Sagan.
Boy, these Nature Store people don't miss a trick!
* 11:20 a.m.: Giggling bimbo-in-training at the Gap rings up my sweater while discussing Nine Inch Nails concert with her girlfriend.
Isn't this how Gennifer Flowers got started?
One minute you're getting canned at a jeans store, the next minute you're perched on some governor's lap in the back of a limo.
* Noon: Time for lunch. The food court looks like the Preakness infield. There are long lines in front of the Chinese, Japanese, French and Italian food stands, plus the yogurt and salad place.
Only one place seems deserted. What's this guy selling: squid? Oh, hot dogs. I order one anyway -- the doctor says I'm not getting enough nitrates.
* 12:45 p.m.: The Kay-Bee toy store is a free-fire zone with Nerf balls, footballs, toy cars, etc., flying everywhere, courtesy of a group of thuggish toddlers. I grab a Power Ranger battle vehicle for the 3-year-old and take a blow to the head from a plastic bat.
Somehow I manage not to black out.
* 1:30 p.m.: Steady now. I take two deep breaths and duck into Victoria's Secret, an otherworldly thicket of lace panties, shimmering bustiers, push-up bras, etc.
The saleswoman's smile fades when she spots me. She looks at me like I'm drooling and wearing a grubby raincoat with nothing on underneath.
Unnerved, I grab a red nightie for my wife that looks like something off a Miss Valvoline calendar and head for the cash register.
* 1:50 p.m.: I buy wildly overpriced hiking boots for the 12-year-old at Foot Locker from an uninterested sales clerk.
His entire attitude suggests a man who feels he was cheated out of the ambassadorship to France, and can't believe he's fallen so low as to actually be working in a shoe store.
Hey, pal, it could be worse.
You could be working for a newspaper.
* 2 p.m.: Head's pounding now. Noise level is approaching that of the flight deck on the USS Ticonderoga. Time to leave. I sprint out to the car with my packages, gun the engine and go fishtailing out the nearest exit.
It's the last chopper out of Saigon.
God help those we left behind.