The safe return of my partially-eaten cherry pie
Last night Kevin spent something like 12 hours in line for an Xbox 360 at Walmart. I walked from Andy's to 73rd Street to visit him.
I knew I was getting close when, outside the electronics section, I heard the tinny rattle of boombox radio. A line of people extended from one of the main aisles back through the headsets and battery packs and other accessories and into the layaway section. The vanguard of the line was a pair of middle-aged women, one with gray hair. A few people down, a middle-aged man sat back, hands folded over his paunch. As the line stretched into the back, and toward the people who'd been here the longest, the people became younger, dropping sharply off from 50s to 20s. I marched past them, trying to ignore their midlly annoyed stares as I cut to the front of the line, to the folding metal chair where Number 2 had been sitting for the past several hours.
Kevin looked happy. Everyone, in fact, looked happy, strangely happy for having been in the back of WalMart, on a folding chair, for the past ten hours. Beneath his chair was a bag of cookies delivered by Shannon, which I ate. I then called his girlfriend and arranged an after-walmart tryst. I also told her that the cookies were excellent, and that she was a Right Nobel Girlfriend (not in those words).
(I'm now introducing girlfriend ranks, like the Right Honorable Girlfriend and the Girlfrined First Class.)
The safe return of my partially-eaten cherry pie was negotiated, but no accord was reached.
. . .
Are muffins not the stupidest food ever conceived? Hey, master chef! Let's make a food that will crumble all over you when you try to eat it! And to make it worse, wrap it up in a little paper container that peels away crumbs and drops them onto your lap too! F it!
The worst feeling in the world is taking a big bite of an already-stale muffin and hearing a storm of crumbs patter against your chest.
I knew I was getting close when, outside the electronics section, I heard the tinny rattle of boombox radio. A line of people extended from one of the main aisles back through the headsets and battery packs and other accessories and into the layaway section. The vanguard of the line was a pair of middle-aged women, one with gray hair. A few people down, a middle-aged man sat back, hands folded over his paunch. As the line stretched into the back, and toward the people who'd been here the longest, the people became younger, dropping sharply off from 50s to 20s. I marched past them, trying to ignore their midlly annoyed stares as I cut to the front of the line, to the folding metal chair where Number 2 had been sitting for the past several hours.
Kevin looked happy. Everyone, in fact, looked happy, strangely happy for having been in the back of WalMart, on a folding chair, for the past ten hours. Beneath his chair was a bag of cookies delivered by Shannon, which I ate. I then called his girlfriend and arranged an after-walmart tryst. I also told her that the cookies were excellent, and that she was a Right Nobel Girlfriend (not in those words).
(I'm now introducing girlfriend ranks, like the Right Honorable Girlfriend and the Girlfrined First Class.)
The safe return of my partially-eaten cherry pie was negotiated, but no accord was reached.
. . .
Are muffins not the stupidest food ever conceived? Hey, master chef! Let's make a food that will crumble all over you when you try to eat it! And to make it worse, wrap it up in a little paper container that peels away crumbs and drops them onto your lap too! F it!
The worst feeling in the world is taking a big bite of an already-stale muffin and hearing a storm of crumbs patter against your chest.
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