(AP Photo: /Julie Jacobson)

by Josh Ross

Shopping with the girlfriend during the holiday season is certainly not something that many of us look forward to. Personally, I would rather floss with Ron Jeremy's back hair then be dragged to the mall, especially when there's a full docket of games on Direct TV's Sunday Ticket.

Yet year after year, I get blackmailed into making that ill-fated trek to the galleria to load up on gifts for friends I don't like and relatives I barely know.

It's always the same story. Once we arrive, I end up doing that 3 mph crawl around the parking lot following another dejected loser like myself dangling a set of keys while he wanders around aimlessly trying to remember where he parked. Of course, when he finally reaches his car, he can't just get in and pull out -- first, he has to fold up the stroller, then buckle the baby into the car seat, arrange the shopping bags alphabetically in the trunk, eat his hotdog on a stick, rotate the tires and finally read The Complete Works of Unabridged William Shakespeare, all before even turning on the ignition.

(This is why, on my way back to the car, I always take out my keys and zigzag between aisles, juking like Barry Sanders towards every car as if it's mine. Nothing puts me in the holiday spirit more then a line of 30 irritated drivers braking and accelerating to my every move.)

After finally pulling into my parking space several time zones away from the shops, my girlfriend turns into Florence Griffith Joyner to get in the mall.

So what are George Romero's Dawn of the Dead mallrats shopping for this holiday season?

I like to start out by negotiating my way through J.Crew for the privilege of waiting in line 45 minutes to buy my sister some overpriced pigment-dyed fleece pant in a color they call soapstone heather. Soapstone Heather is the name of my Asian masseuse, not a sweater color. I guess they figure they can charge $25 for an oregano-colored t-shirt whereas a brown one would only fetch $15.

Next, if I'm in the mood to get real bitter, I check out the pet store. They always try to lure you in with those 47 puppies stuffed into a cage the size of thimble in the front window. Who actually buys these emaciated pups? These pooches sit in those tiny Plexiglas cages, roll around in their own filth for days on end, and these freaking mall pet shops think they can charge 35 times the price of what the same dogs go for in the newspaper? I especially like it when the pup starts to get a little older and they put them on sale -- "Boxer, formally $8,000 on sale for $7,950 . . . one day only!" And then they always offer easy financing. Who would've ever thought you'd have to finance a bitch? Thank God they didn't have do any credit check on me when I got my two mutts.

At this point, I refuse to go to any more stores and invariably wind up camped out in the Nordstrom shoe department watching football while the girlfriend goes around doing her best Richard Pryor impression from Brewster's Millions.

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Every December, I try to weasel my way out of this vile tradition yet every December I find myself wedged between a bunch of other poor saps amid the Brass Plum and the Brass Rail with each of us wishing we were closer to a brass pole.

An odd phenomenon occurs between dudes at the mall. Every guy gets that "This is the last place on earth I want to be, just get me a pint and a big screen" look in his eye. If The Sharper Image is so clever, why don't they partner with Hooters and set up those massage chairs with the electronic nose hair clippers in front of a wall of HDTV's? This isn't just a suggestion -- this needs to happen. The women have Victoria's Secret and The Body Shop, the kids have the carousel and Baby Gap, what do the guys have outside of Foot Locker and Sbarro?

I thought it would be different this year. I got a job this season with FOX's NFL pregame show which requires me to be in the studio all day Sunday, every Sunday. When the girlfriend finally hit me with "We're going shopping this weekend," I had my "Sorry honey, I wish I could go but those bastards at FOX are making me work" comeback all ready.

Who knew she was aware FOX didn't cover football on Saturdays?

See ya at the arcade.

Besides us, the deranged Josh Ross writes for the Los Angeles Times, lethalsports.com, and used to manage Norman Hand's official Web site. Please don't tell anyone.