My fat ass just strolled in from the pharmacy, where I go for my legal drugs, and I had a mildly upsetting run-in with the cashier. A skinny, merry fellow who is as socially retarded as I, but doesn't seem to know it.
Every time a customer paid for something, or he gave change, he threw in some painful banter. Like when co-anchors on the news converse in an awkward way that has people reaching for the remote control. But the remote control wouldn't work on this guy. He kept loudly pointing out the name of the president on each bill. Give him a five and he'd yell, "One portrait of Abe Lincoln!" A dollar, naturally, was a portrait of George Washington. He did the same thing with the coins.
My anxiety rose, and I inched closer with the size and speed of a Macy's balloon.
When I got to the cashier, I thought about bolting, but he nailed me before I could give it serious consideration. "Good morning, sir, would you like a million dollars?" he asked. Jovial. But I wasn't sure what the hell he meant, until I thought of the Big Bank Bailout (BBB). Confident that I had an amusing, amiable reply, I said, "Yeah, I could use a bailout!"
He scanned my items, both of them (wink, wink) and weakly responded a full 10 or 15 seconds later. "A bailout..." he said. It was like I killed a mentally disabled songbird. I out-stranged him and murdered the jolly. It was like an enormous fart during sex, but much worse. And as I sauntered out the door (I saunter), I looked back on the wreckage left behind. A wake, if you will, behind the SS Fucknut. He was totally clammed up and stymied. Before I got to the register, there was joy. After, a strange little man in a blue shirt, with nothing to say.
Outside in the parking lot I took a deep breath and completed a pirouette to avoid the Salvation Army bell-clanger outside.
About 10 minutes ago I found out that they closed the pharmacy because of what I did. Well, not really.
So, pirates...that's pretty crazy, huh?