Overt Testicle Reference

An elderly woman came into the Mini Mart last night and asked me to cut for her a pound of deli ham. I took out the ham and began to slice. She asked for very thick slices, which usually makes it incredibly hard to slice the meat into an exact weight. I began to slice and lay the pieces of ham on the scale. After seven slices or so, the scale read exactly one pound.
At this point, I intended to say, “hey, right on the nose!” I meant, of course, that we had hit the weight “right on the nose.” I said, instead, “hey, right on the nuts!”
The phrase came out of my mouth and sort of hung there like a puff of smoke. I quickly tried to justify it in my mind. It’s a common figure of speech, I said to myself. It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the male reproductive organs.
But after thinking about it during the silence that ensued following my little “figure of speech,” I realized that there was no other way to look at it. I had made a reference to testicles while slicing lunch meat for a sweet old lady.
She knew what I meant, I knew what I meant and there was no getting around it: I had hit it on the nuts.

Pigeon Dialogue

“There’s a pigeon outside.”
“I’ve seen.”
“It’s sitting on the ice cooler.”
“Uh-huh.”

Pause during which nothing is accomplished.

“It keeps swooping at the people in the parking lot.”
“‘Swooping’, you say?”

Second pause.

“Should we call someone?”
“Whom shall we call?”
“Animal Control?”

Smug laughter on the part of the former.

“What’s so funny?”
“There is no Animal Control.”
“Oh… well what should we do then?”
“We have only to wait… and to watch.”

Both parties turn toward the window as a winged shadow passes over their rapt faces.

Kids In Post-Apocalyptic America Don't Get Chicken Wings

Why do I read at work? Because working at a gas station can be extremely boring.

It's not all boring- just the first five hours or so. After that, I am busy emptying garbage, dumping coffee that nobody drank down the drain, and standing in front of the pop cooler in awe of the amount of Mountain Dew gone after only five hours.

Before the last two hours, I need something to pass the time. I like to put on the MPR classical music station and sit down on the stool behind the counter with a good book. I've tried several different genres, but I lean toward the post-apocalyptic. I enjoyed The Road by Cormac McCarthy at work. I would be completely absorbed in the tale of a father and son trying to find the coast before they starve to death or are eaten by roving bands of cannibals when someone would interrupt me by coming to the counter. In that situation, I'm usually resentful... until I remember that the person is only asking me to do what I actually get paid for.

I am pulled abruptly from my imagined world of desolation, danger and famine so that I can sell a big box of frozen chicken wings to an anxious-looking, perspiring man in sweatpants.

Maybe I'll start reading more self-help books.

Ode to Dissatisfaction

You'd better have my brand today,

or I don't know what I'll do.

I'll whine and cry and point my finger;

blaming only you.

I'll stomp around the store and scream.

I'll knock things off the shelves.

And, of course, my kids will be

throwing tantrums for themselves.

They're angry now because you say

you won't allow in pets,

and I'm pissed off 'cause you don't have

my brand of cigarettes.

The other stores that I go to,

they have the things I need

and customer service that has no peer

when it comes to speed.

But when I come into this store,

I see your dopey face.

I know to hope for more than correct change

would simply be a waste.

So I'll be sure to tell your boss

you couldn't please today,

and she will know it's all your fault

when I go, instead, to Holiday.

Davidicus, Master of the Dave Clones

The other day, I came to work and found my boss trying desperately to wrap up a busy day. She said to me that there needed to be more of her. That made me wonder what I would do with more of me to work at the Mini Mart.

Dave #2 would definitely be the lunch meat specialist. Dave #3 would stock pop the whole night. That would leave me with the register. This team would be ideal.

A person enters the Mini Mart where they choose to buy ten bottles of Mr. Pibb because they are buy one, get one free. Normally, I would be frustrated. Not any more. “Dave #3,” I’d yell, “help this gentlemen carry his pop and restock when you’re done. I want that cooler completely full all night.”
“Right away, Master Dave.”
The man wouldn’t be satisfied, though. He would realize that he needs three pounds of summer sausage and four pounds of colby jack sliced. Instead of my usual sub-breath curses, I would simply say, “Dave #2- three LB’s SS and four o’ the cojack.”
Dave #2 would wink and throw a thumb’s up in the air with his bandaged, four-fingered hand. I would know that the order was as good as done.

I would take the money, put it in the till and the three of us would meet in the center for a leaping, group high-five.

It would go on like this until the end of the evening. There would be no need to stay late, because everything could easily be finished early by the three of us.

But then, Dave #3 would say something like, “Hey, we did a great job tonight.”
“Yeah,” Dave #2 would chime in, “why don’t we lock up and go grab a couple of beers.”
“Well,” I would say, frowning, “the thing is this: the three of us only make a combined $7.50 an hour because we’re technically the same person.” Then I would ask Dave #2 and Dave #3 to go and check to see if I left the light on in the milk cooler. When they were out of sight, I would lock the door and then go to the bar for a beer.

It would be sweet.