Yesterday was very busy at the Earp Ranch. I gave the missus a break and took Kevin and Princess P to FDR Skatepark from 10am-1pm. We got home just in time for me to take the missus to the orthopedic doctor. (She damaged her lateral knee ligament, and they are trying physical therapy first before discussing more serious measures.) After that, I took my walk and she made the kids dinner before taking Kevin to karate. After karate, we went out to a nice restaurant and gorged ourselves on steak, skrimps, and margaritas.
The day’s excitement, however, occurred on the ride home from FDR. We stopped for snacks – it was hot, and the kids were sweating through their clothes. The mini mart is located in the center or town near the river, so the clientele is always “interesting.” Kevin wanted a bottle of Sprite, so I walked him to the cooler. A woman was standing there, door flung open, staring inside, because soda freezer doors are not transparent or anything…
The woman was really working the “heroin chic” look… brought to you by actual heroin. An artist’s conception off the “woman” – I’m still waiting for the chromosome results – is above. She was wearing a flowered sundress, which would have looked spectacular on, say, Eva Mendes. On this troll, it looked like a potato sack on Rachel Dratch.
I couldn’t tell this woman’s origin, but it was obviously either African-American, Hispanic, or Ferengi. We patiently waited for this human sloth to make a selection, and after a full minute or two of staring – “IT’S ONLY COKE PRODUCTS, HONEY, AND NONE OF THEM COME WITH REAL COCAINE!” – she grabbed a Cherry Coke, pulled it out of the slot, and stared at it while spinning the label 360 degrees.
What. The. Fuq?
She places the first bottle back, selects another Cherry Coke, and scrutinizes the label. And again. And again. Now a good dozen bottles have Hepatitis C and tuberculosis, so she has that going for her. I tell Kevin to choose a snack and I’ll wait for this braying ass to pick something and stick with it.
I immediately smell toast burning, and realize she figured something out. The regular and Diet Cokes have names on the labels; you know, that stupid summer initiative they pull out. This twat was examining all the Cherry Cokes – which in this store, were bare – for her name. (Or “working name,” if you will.) She now moves on the the Coke bottles, and the examination continues.
At this point, I have my finger on the trigger and am full ready to serve twenty years for offing this skin sac. My inside voice is screaming, “COKE DOESN’T MAKE BOTTLES WITH CHARO SHANEQUA LOPEZ-JEFFERSON ON THEM, ASSHOLE!” but self-control got the better of me. After a full five minutes – I wish I was exaggerating – the bint finally found a name she found acceptable, after literally fondling two dozen bottles of soda.
This, my friends, is why I have anger issues.
Oh yeah, here’s Kevin and Princess P at the skatepark…