Mr. H made the fatal mistake of allowing a checkout clerk into our lives. The insolent whelp commented eagerly on our selection of a pre-made pot pie, and Mr. H allowed that it did, in fact, look good. This led to a tiresome diatribe on the type of pot pie made by the clerk’s mother, and her gravy recipe to boot. His mother’s gravy is quite creamy.
Mmm-hmm, said Mr. H. I cringed as the worm cast an eye towards our pasta sauce. “Wow, only $3.49. Is this any good?”
While waiting for the card approval, the clerk stretched theatrically and asked “Does anyone want to walk on my back to get this knot out?” I decided this would be a great time to make sure the floor was properly tiled.
“You know, I used to have a friend who had his girlfriend walk on his back wearing six-inch pumps,” he persisted.
“Wow, usually you have to pay for that,” I said. The clerk stood there agog, as if I were suddenly the offensive one. Mr. H started snuffling, and we grabbed our bags and ran for it.