There’s an interesting story behind a lot of things. Like how this dude I know claims to have lost his virginity to a fag hag at Pound. I mean, ordinarily I would assume this was just a lie (nobody has ever actually had sex except for your parents) but falsely claiming to have been scooped up by a fag hag would be kind of like falsely admitting you got picked up by a weird girl and used as a surrogate for the man she couldn’t have because he was all about doing sex on other people who wore a lot of pink and listened to such bands as Panic! At The Disco. Is there a point to this tale, other than an easy zing on Panic! At The Disco and reminding you all that you can’t keep secrets from me? For once, there is, because I am extremely curious about the store that I shall call ‘That Store At The Top Of The Steps That Go Nowhere’ (otherwise known as ‘Unistop’).
Why am I curious? I am curious because I am pretty sure that it is run by twins. Oh, I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that you have finally uncovered my not-so-secret identity and that I must be from Christchurch because only a person that racist would actually write something that implied that all Asian people looked the same. Well, you are wrong. I am not from Christchurch, and in fact I love the Asian people so much that I have watched Ghost in the Shell approximately one billion times and I listen to J-pop anime-trash on my iPod and sometimes I order sushi for dinner if I am in the mood for dead fish wrapped in rice balls. Also, even if I was some manner of racist Cantabrian who did not recognise the fine contributions that the Asian people have made to truly horrifying pornography and Victoria University’s bank accounts I am pretty sure that ‘That Shop’ actually is run by twins. This interests me because I am sure that there is a story worth hearing that is better than “we decided to go into business together”.
Broadly, I am a fan of this sort of shop because it is not Starmart. Now, I’m not some Cuba Street indie fuckwit, stroking my neck-beard as I fulminate on how corporations ruin everything they touch and things were so much better back in the Dark Ages before capitalism and corporations and sanitation and how if only everyone embraced anarchism or Discordianism or whatever other bullshit hipster pose that crowd of fucktards have embraced this month in between circle jerking endlessly over some godawful indie band that will never, ever get a record deal because they sound like a cat inside a clothes dryer. If I was that sort of douchebag, I would hate Starmart because they are popular and vaguely successful and hating things that are popular and mainstream gives you approximately ten thousand style points and triples your chances of getting laid at whatever the hell it is that Indigo has turned into.
No, I am the other sort of a douchebag, the one that merely dislikes being ripped off. There is no way in hell that a bottle of Coke should cost what it costs at Starmart, and if you are like me and have to mainline a massive amount of caffeine to prise yourself out of the clutches of Morpheus and all his little sidekicks (Sandman reference: plus fifty style points) then Starmart is little more than a franchise that has based their entire brand around charging you insane amounts of money for basic necessities of life. In this particular moral constellation, ‘That Shop’ gains a lot of points in my book merely by not being Starmart and not violating my wallet in return for the litre of Coke I need to jumpstart my heart every morning.
That’s not to say that ‘That Shop’ is perfect, though. The food is frankly vile, being mostly overcooked and highly shitty, and there’s always a massive queue because it also caters to jerks who like pretentious coffees. Also, it’s one of the few places on campus people can buy cigarettes so there is always a noxious cloud of death outside and unless there is some hysterical exaggeration going on in the media, inhaling even a single molecule of tobacco could result in my instant firey death. So I guess that’s got to be a few points off. Also, when the queue is really long, it snakes around past the “female products” section, and there are no times that I ever even want to think about that because that is seriously pretty gross, and is the sort of thing that can put me off my daily quest for a massive heart attack and/ or ‘the diabetes’.
Horrifying oceans of blood aside, ‘That Shop’ is a pretty good university service, even if it is not technically affiliated with the university in any way. That may explain why it is not a gigantic cesspool of failure, but I have delivered a lot of burns this review so I guess it’s time you joined the dots and did this burn for yourself. (If you start crying every time you see an advertisement for another university because you realise that it is too late and that transferring is useless and that there is no escaping then I guess you have done it right.) Anyway, I give That Shop only HALF A MIGRAINE OUT OF FIVE, and that half is only earned by the fact that one time I was in there and the radio started playing some awful song by Fall Out Boy. I recommend all students shop there.