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was winning the fight on any given Sunday. As they did, more land was being developed farther west, spreading the gift of suburban high jinks to the exits off the highway folks rarely traveled. Pretty soon the blank spaces of west Des Moines were colored in with families and fun.
    That is when the
real
Rich Mall moved in.
    Two stories high and damn near the biggest thing the city had ever experienced,Jordan Creek had quickly put to rest the argument of where the wealthy people in town were going for their socks and signets. The other two malls really never stood a chance. At Jordan Creek, on any day of the week, you can buy—and this is true—swords, guns, pretzels, $500 tennis shoes, Yankee Candles, DVDs, lingerie, whatever the hell Bath & Body Works sells, books, coffee, and Love Sacks, which are plush bean bag chairs the size of a Honda Accord. There are more restaurants at that mall than on the south side alone and a theater that might as well be on Hollywood Boulevard. Oh, and they have a Cheesecake Factory.
    Game. Set. Match.
    For the poor fuckers at the NOAH Malls, all they could do was pour a little more money into décor and ambience just to keep enough of their heads above water so they weren’t choking on salt and saliva. Jordan Creek was
carpeted
, with fountains and elevators, for Christ’s sake. If Zeus himself was going to shop at the Gap, he was going to go to Jordan Creek. With Jordan Creek’s construction, the mall battles of Des Moines, Iowa, were swiftly drawn to a bloody close, shortening the war by four years. But by doing so, Jordan Creek had in fact evoked the universal sin of all sins. It had given rise to the worst of the worst: the
real
mall shoppers. People were now bopping along, paying no attention, cracking off into their cell phones and cackling at unheard shitty jokes like they were front row for the second coming of Pryor. Keys dangling from manicured fists, these sophomoric twits blazed a terrible trail through our midst with enough selfish ambiguity to place us all on the chopping block, with no turning back. These are grim times in the DSM, and there seems to be no resistance to its allure. Teenagers, both girls and boys, rummage through the psyches of the platitudes, skulking or pointing, acting like assholes on parole. We’ll talk
way
more about children later, but suffice it to say that the landscape is riddled with shit stains with too much time on their hands. And many of them aren’t buying a fucking thing.
    Never mind the mall walkers … here’s the Sex Pistols.
    I have put up with shit like flash mobs and Occupy Restrooms for so long you’re all lucky I haven’t climbed a fucking clock tower in recent years. In fact, why are so many of you out and about during the day? I know for a fact that most of you don’t have the kind of freewheeling schedule that I enjoy. Where are your jobs? What do you
do
for a living? And if you don’t have a fucking job, why the hell are you buying so much shit you really don’t need? Are your parents away on vacation? Did you bolt on your sitters? Did you sneak out the window of your bedroom in broad daylight like a “cast” member on
Cops
so you could peruse the streets and cul-de-sacs of the world for no real reason? I suppose I could be considered a callous cock face for this, but my question is: What do you actually
do
?
    According to the commercials of the world, set annoyingly to that shitty Indy hippie garbage (we’ll talk more about that “music” later), what you people do with your time is simple: you traipse through sunlit afternoons, creating unique activities for yourselves because your generation is
so
different, you have to have different things to engage your independent and, therefore, superior attention. You have impromptu kickball games or paint things that you consider ugly and displeasing to your eyes. You gather in public places to make art consisting of multicolored cardboard cutouts that you then hold up to the