I went to the liquor store on my way home from work today to pick up a couple things for the great celebration tonight. It was just the essentials – Sour Apple Pucker, club soda, diet club soda, and then a special request Jenni asked me to pick up. I called her for one last check while I was there bewildered by all of the shit DeKuyper actually makes, and she asked me to pick up some of the airplane sized bottle of booze. For the pinata, of course.
The little bottles are obviously at the front counter to insure no asshole like me would steal them. I had to ask the barely legal kid working the counter to grab some out for me, and naturally, I made him pick three different kinds. The manager just happened to walk up while Barely Legalâ„¢ was ringing me up.
He looked at my miniature bottle selection and tried the small talk thing by saying: “Couldn’t make up your mind there?”
I hate small talk. Pretty much a lot. So, I was forced to respond with some semi-truth: “Well, honestly, it’s all going in a pinata.” (This part is true.)
“Oh,” he said. “Cinco de Mayo party?”
“Nope, not really. My boy’s turning six this weekend.” (That part’s not so much the truth.)
I signed my usual signature of W-scribble-y B-scribble-y, and left the store with the manager and Barely Legalâ„¢ trading concerned looks the whole time.
Times like these make me enjoy being a periodic asshole. The rest of the times, I’m so fucking nice it hurts.
(Odd, but true? Whenever I reach up to the top row for symbols on my keyboard, I always feel like Michelle Branch or that Mozart guy or Stevie Wonder (minus the blind part). That’s right. I think I’m a fucking pianist when I make the â„¢ symbol. Every. Single. Time.)