...beneath these tragic waves
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old man whiskey
Sept 26, 2001

I've likely mentioned the backwoods gas station by my college, but forgive me if I don't wade through my old entries to check. While in a long stretch at my painting class, I had become rather parched and needed a drink badly. Sadly, all the drinks on the campus (at least, in my building) are the kind of that dissolve nails in a few days and turn plants stark white over night. Since I try to stay away from those and since I'm trying to stop drinking any soda at all, I decided to venture forth to the store and grab some grape juice, the drink of champions. And me.

There was a strong smell of smoke as I walked in and I knew already that I was doomed to smell of the horrid odor of a smoker who wears leather. I don't wear leather, but any time I get around smoke, my body absorbs it as if I were leather.

As I came up to the counter to buy my juice, an older guy, I want to say closing in on 60, was up there buying some drinks. He and the nappy smoking cashier woman were having a conversation and they kept looking over at the woman messing with the raw meat a little to the side. Did I mention this store is also a "food establishment"? Cheese sandwiches are their specialty...yum. Cheese sandwiches for three dollars, might I add. The old man looked at her with a sickening look and asked (in a VERY heavy voice like he'd just run four miles) "what's her name, huuuuuuuuuuuu". The "huuu" is when he stopped saying words and just breathed out really gruffly, as if he was trying to sound sexy, and failing with all sorts of success. The cashier chimed in, "her name is Daisy Duke"... yes, you read that right. Daisy Duke. At first I didn't want to believe it, but then I remembered where I was, and it made sense. The old guy, on the other hand, was happy to believe it and seemed rather...excited...by the name. To which I could only shiver.

In her corner, I could see ole Daisy and the unhappiness in her eye, and not just the kind of unhappiness you get from groping raw meat all day. She looked like a cornered rat...so did the look in her eyes. When the old man threw out a "hey, honey" she looked up slightly and gave a weak smile of someone trying with all their might to show they were fine when in fact they were about to unleash a river of vomit.

I don't know who he thought he was, that old man. First off, they weren't related which, out there, is a no-no. If you're not first cousins or closer, you don't mess with each other, because it's just wrong. Nor was it like he was rich, as was evident from his 24 can case of beer which rang up to 4.29. If he was rich, I'm sure he'd be drinking...whatever it is that rich people drink. Bottled water produced from the fat of endangered baby seals, or something. And he certainly wouldn't be finding it in that store. You could tell that this wasn't going to be one of those supermodels marrying the old rich tycoon scenarios. Not be a long shot.

The whole bit ended without much actual incident. He didn't make a move past his chatter, though he seemed the kind to go for body parts if there was any manner of opening She didn't lose her stomach all over the horse meat. So I guess everybody won. Except for me of course, who now smelled like an ashtray.

ah, foote
For being "dear to you", you certainly didn't hesitate a moment to move away and not even take the time to say good-bye to me. I can tell how very dear I am, indeed.

Have fun being womanized.

devolve | evolve

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