Black Friday Deals 2009 shopping spree turns dark
Friday, October 30th, 2009Amelia Nosehart liked to fly through the malls to get a head start on Christmas. But a policy she’d purchased from California Health Insurance agent Matt Lockard literally helped save her sight when “shopping” for Black Friday Deals 2009 went horribly wrong.
Amelia Nosehart’s favorite day of the year was the day after Thanksgiving when Rancho Bernardo shoppers could get a head start on their Christmas shopping with early bird specials. Retail stores in neighboring burbs would open at two, three, four, five a.m. in efforts to woo obsessed shoppers just like Amelia. But at Ye Olde Pet Shoppe what should have been a touch exotic as 3:37 a.m. sprees go almost turned deadly. The chain store’s “exotic reptile” section was selling “Baby spitting cobras” for an amazing $1.99 each. As Amelia joined the crazed throng of “early birders” she knew she had to have two or three of the venomous little critters, assuming they’d been defanged of course, as pets for her nephews Josh and Andy, both notoriously difficult to buy for. As Amelia nearly “flew” through to the front of the frenzied crowd of typical Black Friday bargain hunters, a glass case accidentally cracked open in the madness and she heard a slight “hsst” and felt excruciating pain in her left eye, the one with its stigmatism.
Rushed to the nearest hospital for obligatory antivenin treatment and eye cleansing, Amelia was obliged to stay overnight as a precaution, and called Matt Lockard, her friendly California Health Insurance agent at his office in Ventura, just to let him know what had happened at Ye Olde Pet Shoppe.
“Matt. Guess who this is? It’s Amelia. I’m in the hospital,” she said.
He kind of recognized her. “Like the legend?”
“Yes, sort of,” she said, “Guess what happened to me on Black Friday.”
“What?” he asked, remembering the policy he’d sold her just a few months back, covering just about any kind of emergency.
She provided the gory details, about the crowds, the frenzy, the early morning madness, and the baby snakes for her nephews.
“You’re lucky you can still see out of that eye,” Matt opined.
“I can’t at the moment. They gave me a patch. It’s still light-sensitive.”
“Oh,” Matt said, “but you sound so happy.”
“Why shouldn’t I be happy?” explained Amelia, “Ye Olde Pet Shoppe not only gave me the baby cobras for free, they threw in an EXTRA pair. They’re all in my semi-private room with me now in a convenient ‘holiday’ Plexiglas case. Josh and Andy are going to be absolutely thrilled!”
“I hope these have been defanged,” Matt offered.
Amelia squinted, feeling a twinge.
They were everywhere. Dotting the grasslands of California were vestigial gates, the beginnings of fences, thousands of such ethereal structures acting as portals to emptiness. These creations were made by one Jack DeVries, an artist hailing from Modesto. One day the quasi-celebrity strolled in to California Health Insurance agent Matt Lockard’s office. “I was expecting you,” Matt said.
Bob was kidded about his name whenever he played golf. “How come you never make par?” his golfing buddies teased. The truth be known — Bob Parr was a lousy golfer. He shanked or hooked most drives, and popcorned his iron shots. He missed putts less than four inches in length. “I’ve never seen anybody do that,” remarked Bob’s friend John P. Knotworth. But on the 12th hole, a par-three dogleg, the unfortunate Knotworth was standing about fifty feet down the fairway when Bob Parr struck his fateful tee shot with an ancient driver. Knotworth was way off to the side and seemingly safely out of Bob’s line of fire. The golf ball, a brand new dimpled Titleist, had other ideas. Struck hard by big Bob, who stood six foot six and weighed close to 250 pounds without his cleats, the Titleist careened on a straight diagonal, striking John P. squarely on his forehead before he had a chance to duck, knocking him cold. Pete and Gary, two other members of the foursome, gazed upon the scene in horror. Bob was mortified by the accident he’d caused. “Oh no!” Bob screamed. John P. Knotworth resembled a dead sunfish lying by a golf course pond even by the time the paramedics arrived.
