Deep Down Under

Customer: “Hi, I have a question.”

Me: “Yes?”

Customer: “What colonoscopy caps do you carry?”

Me: “Pardon me?”

Customer: “What colonoscopy caps do you carry?”

Me: “Um… I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

Customer: “I want to know what colonoscopy caps you carry.”

Me: “I… I don’t think we carry colonoscopy caps.”

Customer: “Argh, no!” [through clenched teeth and what I suddenly realize is an Australian accent] “What. Color. Nasty. Pig. Caps. Do. You. Carry?”

The lesson here is that proper enunciation is critically important during international travel. Hit those consonants, people.

PS: We were out of the color he wanted (which thank Zeus and Jesus wasn’t brown).

Marjorie in the Mist

Me: “May I help you?”

Customer: [languidly] “Zipper…?”

Me: “We do. Are you looking for pants or briefs?”

Customer: [staring off into space] “Bottom…”

Me: “Yes, but only in a neoprene singlet.”

Customer: [possibly astroplaning] “Gah…?”

Me: “Right this way!”

And you know what’s funny? Until that moment, I didn’t even know I was fluent in Vacant Gay Barfly.

The benefits of cultural immersion can really sneak up on you.

We may never know what happened to that barback

My friend Orin has loyally followed me through any number of my online writing endeavors (both successful and abandoned), and he never fails to entertain me with his running commentary. He recently messaged me some thoughts on Marjorie’s Forgeries, and while reading them I realized that a) he remains as hilarious as he is adorable, and b) damn, you guys, the boy pays attention.

Here’s an excerpt from his latest missive:

I’m learning a lot from your online training program. (No, we don’t sell poppers; cockrings are on the endcap; largest lube is 16 oz; we only have that shirt in medium; the fitting room is right behind this curtain… but be careful, because a barback went in there once to try something on and may not have ever come out; closing the fitting room curtain requires a feisty flick of the wrist; only stuffed animals are allowed to have sex in the store; inventory requires counting a bajillion hankies.)

At this rate, I think I should be ready to help run the seasonal booth at the mall come Christmas time. (No, you may not try on the assless leather pants just so you can sit on Mall Santa’s lap and have your picture taken.) See? I’m ready.

I really should fly him in to interview for a holiday help position. I’ll bet he’d look delectable as a leather elf.