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October 12, 2009
The few times I've deigned to browse through the crap heaps at Victoria's Secret -- thinking, incorrectly, that maybe the quality of the merchandise has magically earned the right to its price tag -- I've been ambushed by a rabid saleswoman hellbent on letting me know she'd be delighted to discover my correct bra size by way of the tape measure draped around her neck like a gym teacher's lanyarded whistle.

I can't help but be grossed out when I see one of these ghouls emerging from an occupied fitting room. This is perhaps the truest form of booby trap.