Gee, the mannequins at Old Navy sure are hot!

So the other day I'm just walking around Old Navy and stuff, right? Looking for some clothes to go golfing in with my boss right? Looking for a good pair of men's capris to wear while I lodgepole my girl around with, get my drift?
She's there too by the way. She brought me here. I didn't really need the capris, but you know how women are. Give them any excuse to go shopping so they can chat with their girlfriends about how red shirts go well with red pants, but rouge shirts go terrible with rouge ascots...But that's a rant for another day, know what I mean?
So I'm walking around the place. Getting a feel for the place. "Scoping the place out", as some guy almost as douchebaggy as me might say Yeah, I'm a douche, and proud of it. Fucking say something about it, I fucking dare you. That's right, you don't mess with a guy who wears fifty dollar plaid shirts, do you? ... and what do I see but the perkiest rack I've ever seen on a chick. It was like her breasts were water balloons filled with protein powder. BOOM! Needless to say, my erection was raging like the Incredible Hulk OD'ing on cocaine.
==I look up to greet the chick...==
...and she doesn't have a head. I yell "Goddamit!" a little too loud. People are all looking at me like I'm an even bigger douche then I am. Fuck them. I'm douchey, but they're acting like I'm some kind of psycho. Dollface runs up to see if I'm okay. I slap her ass, then tell her it's her face next if she doesn't stop interrupting my cursing. She doesn't cry because she knows the penalty for crying is the stairs.
==So anyway, it's a mannequin==
At first I'm all depressed, because I thought I met a potential threesome partner, but then I decide to just enjoy the artwork for what it's worth. The triangular patch between her hips is just perfect. I'm assuming it's a she, even though she doesn't have a head and probably isn't 100 percent anatomically correct. Hot, just the same. The choice of clothing just accentuates everything. The stripes of her jacket and the pattern of her shirt both seem to subtly point down to her crotch. The words "Old" and "Navy" highlight her mature but perky breasts. A real ten, man. A real ten. I gotta tell you, they don't make them like that anymore.
==That's when I notice that the whole store is full of hot mannequins==
This place is ripe for a porno flick, that's what's going through my mind. My girl is still over there talking to her friends about skinny jeans and bracelets and shit, and all I can think about is taking that mannequin to a 5-star restaurant, then taking her to a 1-star hotel. And they're all that way. There's just this shitload of chicks who are insanely hot and the best part is they don't even talk because they don't have heads. Talk about your eye candy! It's days like this that make up for putting up with her shit worth it.
Oh, what's that? You want to go shopping again and blow all my money on your self-esteem? Well, guess what? I've been ogling mannequins all afternoon instead of you. How's that effect your self-esteem? QED.I actually have no idea what that means.
==Okay, not all the mannequins are hot==
There's some dude mannequins, which isn't cool. There's children mannequins too, which definitely isn't cool. There's even a dog mannequin for some reason, even though there's no dog clothing there. I think they just did that to be cute. It didn't work, though. I don't entirely mind the dog. It kind of reminds me of this chick I dated in high school. She was hairy everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Her jungle-crotch was so bad that Tarzan couldn't swing through that shit.
==But Still...==
Like, if you took all those other non-chick mannequins out, and the real people, and stripped the female mannequins down, and they had anatomically working parts, you'd have the makings of the best porno film ever. Those chicks would totally be down for whatever you wanted.
I'm in the middle of staring at one of these angels of sexiness, and sure enough, "Clueless in Suburbia" herself walks up to me and says. "Do you like that top? Do you think it would look good on me?"
I'm thinking, Jesus, it's a shirt. It's a fucking shirt. Stop calling it a top, okay?
I say, "Sure thing, doll. You'd look solid in that shirt. You would open the celestial gates of heaven with that shirt. Buy it, buy it now." 
The way I see it, I can imagine she's the mannequin when we're bumping uglies. Come to think of it, why not just do the mannequin? Yeah, yeah, I know you're thinking that's territory solely reserved for losers, but think about it: a mannequin is such a low maintenance thing. No feeding, easy cleaning, no babies, no time wasted with talking, no STDs, no money wasted on getting her drunk just for sex, no cuddling. It's perfect!
==The Cashier Kinda Looks at me funny==
When she sees me carrying a mannequin to the register. So does my girl. She looks at me with those innocent, stupid eyes.
"Sweetie, why are you carrying that mannequin?" she says.
I tell her, "Don't worry baby doll, it's not like I plan to have sex with it or anything." Well. That's a lie. I just think it would look nice in your wardrobe, right next to your Powerpuff Girl dolls.
Her face lights up. I won her over. Piece of cake. Now for the cashier.
"Um, sir." She begins. I interrupt her because I'm a man. I'm like, "Hold on there, chicka. I was wondering if we could buy this from you, for a reasonable price of course." She rolls her eyes probably because she wants me. and goes to fetch the manager. I'm such a smooth talker.
==Let's wrap this up already==
Long story short, the manager is fat and he sells me the mannequin for $5000. When I get home, I sleep between the sheets with my girl and I fake an orgasm. I save the real deal for the mannequin. Her name's Delia, and she's a hot piece of plastic black ass.
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