Go directly to Hell. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.

Customer: “Let’s see what junk you have today.”

Me: “What… kind of junk are you looking for?”

Customer: “I’ll take a bottle of English Gold Label.”

Me: “Coming right up!”

Customer: “Not that it matters. They’re all the same junk.”

[Ed. Note: This impertinent blend of heirloom corrosives offers sparkling citrus top notes with hints of oak and black currant, rounded out by a chocolatey, turpentine finish…]

Me: “That’ll be $28.13. Would you like a receipt?”

Customer: “Nah. My credit card will send an alert to my phone.”

Me: “Okay, cool.”

Customer: “I have all my cards set up that way. I work in a prison, and trust me, the inmates will steal anything.”

And this is where I had to surrender and accept what a horrible person I am, because he only had one leg, and as he trekked away on his crutches, all I could think was, “Wow, he’s right. Those inmates don’t fuck around.”

2 thoughts on “Go directly to Hell. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.

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