Justin: In the Feast of Being Able to. Amen.

Hillary Touched Me

‘Why can’t I be me?’
-Robert Smith, August 1992

As kids I would sit on my little brother’s chest and pin his arms to the ground with my knees, then I’d gently comb his eyebrows backwards with two fingers while rapidly repeating, “whichey whichey whichy”. I thought of that yesterday at work and laughed loudly, more than is professional. From 3:45 – 5:11 to be exact.

Conversation with Ted:
me: Sunday night I dreamed i had to share a bed with Hillary Clinton
Sent at 3:48 PM on Tuesday
Ted: ;aslkjdf;l
klad;jflkj;lkj;aslkdjf;l
klj;alkdjf;ahhahahahahaha
me: sigh

Last week’s SPAM included an email entitled:
“did you just bought an ipad?” I told Ted.
“i does just bought one,” he replied.

So I’ve been thinking about work and play and hobbies and ninja skills, and I have some thoughts:

All men seek art, whether it is painting a canvas, painting a house, driving a tank or keeping books. We all dream of turning something into an art form. If I could choose, it would be bass fishing. Instead, it is writing fiction. But to formally train in what is already instinctual is risky business, for art is the expression of the soul of the common man, and professional artists are not common men.

Which is why art students are so dang weird. And English majors, I suppose. At least the poets.

If I could be the star of any movie in the past, it wouldn’t be the movie Radio. Or Rudy.

I wonder if Steve Jobs will go to Heaven.

Every morning I grind coffee but every 1 out of 5 I forget to bring it.

I wonder how many people cannot understand asking that about Steve Jobs. I do like him and many Apple products.

Saturday a cashier at Wal-Mart almost broke me. I took my mother with me on my monthly grocery run for cat food, sodas and corn chips. We shared a basket. When we finished I payed for my things first, which constituted 2 plastic sacks. Then the lady began to ring up mom’s items. I pulled the empty cart forward. As the cashier filled the 3rd bag in the little turnstile of bags, I removed the first two and placed them back into mom’s cart with my two bags.

Mom was busy asking the woman how one goes about finding left-behind merchandise, because two Saturdays prior, she left a bottle of Kaboom bathroom cleaner in the little turnstile and it has vexed her ever since.

So I remove mom’s first and second bag, then as I turn to prepare to take the 3rd bag, this woman turns the little turnstile BACKWARDS away from me, and begins filling a new bag from the bag slot I just emptied. I just stood there, feeling like you do when you extend your right hand to shake but the person doesn’t like touching. So I waved at the far bag.

Then it immediately hit me that THIS was how mom’s Kaboom could get left behind. I waited for the woman to place a few objects into the bag, then I yanked the little turnstile fast to me and took the bag. She promptly yanked it back AGAIN, sending that poor castaway bag back to the far side of the moon.

I opened my mouth but mom cut me off.

“I mean we bought two things of cleaner that day. He got Scrub Bubbles and I got Kaboom, and I checked under all the seats and he checked all his bags.”

I yanked the little turnstile and took a bag, she yanked it back. I began to seethe with anger. I stared at her, searching for some sign of the evil I now knew lay within her. There was no emotion, not even eye contact. This woman was as cold as ice, and she was willing to pay the price.

Mom’s final bag was filled, and the woman announced the total. I stood waiting. She did not rotate the little turnstile. I almost went over the counter to destroy her.

Now, I’m sure you are picturing this as some 20 year old girl, but she was more like 50. Which is further proof she was evil and not just a moron. She knew the game. She had the Kaboom at home and she wanted mom’s Renuzit refills.

I spun the little turnstile so hard that I almost missed the bags, then I liberated them. Next, I slowly turned the little turnstile and groped each and every bag to be sure I denied this patron saint of Wal-Mart evil the pleasure of winning.

I had noted her name, as usual, upon arriving at her both of deeds, but the venom washed it from my lobes. I’ll have to search for her by face next visit, and be on the ready with a rubber wedge or something to thwart the nefarious mis-turnings.

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