After queuing for over an hour to get into the damn shop, as if it's an exclusive nightclub, I face a vision of hell that brings Hieronymous Bosch to mind, albeit with more "50% OFF" price tags, and less decapitated corpses.
Read the whole thing, you don't want to miss Penelope getting her inner Conan on. Or the Gucci mosh pit. Or the carpets of territoriality . . .