In Sickness and in Something About Mary

Customer 1: [yelling at someone out in the bar] “HEY, CHAD. DID I NOT ONCE GET MY SCROTUM CAUGHT IN MY ZIPPER?”

Customer 2: “Jesus. We’re getting married on Saturday. How did I not know this about you?”

Customer 1: “You’ve never noticed the J-shaped scar on my balls? There was meat on both sides of the metal. Anyway, let’s go get a drink. I need a cocktail.”

You and me both, Teddy Boy. But let’s maybe use yours as antiseptic.

Can I get a witness? Oh, hey, cool: a witness. Much obliged.

[My friend Jessie came into the store last night to give me a tote bag he’d found that he thought I’d appreciate. He was more than correct, and I was cooing over said notary tote (totary?) when a customer meandered in and randomly started telling us about his new crush.]

Customer: “I met the cutest guy this week.”

Me: “Oh?”

Customer: “Yeah, he’s awkward, like me.”

Me: “Aww, that’s sweet.”

Customer: “He sold me bad drugs.”

Me: “And that’s… wait, what?”

Customer: “He’s a really bad drug dealer. I saw him today, too. He was drunk and had just fallen off his bicycle, so his face was pretty messed up.”

Me: “…”

Customer: “It was very endearing.”

Me: “That’s one way of looking at it…”

Customer: “So do you think I should, like, pursue him? He’s so awkward, like I am.”

Me: “Okay… awkward can be nice, but the parts where he’s a drug dealer and gets so trashed that he falls off of his bike are kinda cons. Y’know?”

Customer: “Yeah, I guess. But I really like how awkward he is.”

And then he started licking the side of his beer bottle and drifted out of the store, and Jessie was like, “Wow. That… legitimately just happened.” And I was all, “SEE?! I DO NOT MAKE THIS SHIT UP.”

A few minutes later, a different customer asked which solvents I prefer. I told him that I don’t use them personally, and he got all weirded out and was like, “… Oh. Awkward.”

Bitch, you don’t know from awkward.

Poetry in the Brushed Metal Round

Customer: [drunkenly attempting to explain his sex life] “You know what? I’m a man in the streets, and a… uh… fuck me… in… the sheets.”

Well said, Wordsworth.

Meanwhile, across the store, I heard another customer say to his friends, “Well, let’s ask the cock ring expert,” which I assumed meant me. But no, he was referring to the straight girl who’d come in with them, and who was now holding court and issuing proclamations.

These are not cock rings,” she announced, gesturing dismissively at a display of cock rings. “Real cock rings are made out of metal. C’mon, we’ll find them somewhere else.”

I wanted to point out that there was a veritable motherload of metal cock rings right behind her, but I also didn’t want her thinking I was trying to usurp her throne or anything. I mean, I already have a tiara, and the title “cock ring expert” really wouldn’t read well on a résumé.

So, y’know, she can keep it. Happy valid cock ring hunting, hon.

Wellington’s Beef

[Yet another conversation between myself and my friend Mike. I’m pretty sure Facebook is gearing up to permanently ban us from Messenger.]

Mike: “Was there Priding this weekend?”

Me: “I was out of town for most of it, but I worked a shift at the Forge and experienced minor Priding on Sunday.”

Mike: “Minor Priding sounds like a character from an Agatha Christie novel. He’s a vicar who likes to meet up in the bushes for a little toad-in-the-hole.”

Me: “You know, the names of English dishes always sound like activities you’d come across in a boarding school locker room.”

Mike: “Right? Sometimes I make up imaginary ones. ‘I think I’d like a taste of master’s hotrump,’ Eustace said as he fingered the thimble.”

Me: “I just looked up a list of English food on Wikipedia and am both horrified and a little turned on. ‘Bangers and mash!’ Stanley cried, sliding his rarebit into Elliott’s lardy cake.

Mike: “Care for a nibble of grandad’s spotted dick?

Me: “‘Unable to hold back against the bubble and squeak, Angus shot jellied eels as Hamish filled his treacle with hog’s pudding.’

Mike: “Hog’s Pudding sounds like a town in Potterworld.”

And with that, the catamite foodie thread came to a premature close, although I’m now even more psyched about Mike coming down for GLUE Weekend. I’m going to take him to the Black Labrador and see if he can order lunch without dissolving into a puddle of helpless church-giggles.

A Fabrication by Any Other Name

Customer: “So a friend of mine just won IML.”

Me: “Really?”

Customer: “Yep!”

Me: “Very cool! I love James.”

Customer: “…”

Me: “He’s an amazing guy.”

Customer: “…”

Me: [gesturing to the IML medal around my neck] “I competed with him.”

Customer: “… Oh. Yes! He’s great. I knew him when he lived in San Antonio.”

Me: “Awesome! I’ll send him your regards.”

Customer: “Neat!”

And then he changed the subject.

Later that night, I messaged James and was like, “Hey, [name] says hello,” and he wrote back all, “Cool! Um… who?” So I was like, “The important thing here is that you got name-dropped,” and he was all, “Oh, hey, I did! Hell yeah!

Additional points of info:

1. James really is amazing, and it’s very freaking inspiring to have him representing our class this year.

2. This whole situation was so much more entertaining than the humdrum “I know the owner” allegations I usually get stuck debunking.