Customer: [bursting dramatically into the store] “MY LOVE. I need that shirt.”
Me: “Okay. Which shirt are you interested in?”
Customer: [points at the back wall, where seven or eight different T-shirts are on display]
Me: “Which one?”
Customer: [clutches chest and continues pointing emphatically]
Me: “Which one, please?”
Customer: [sighing desolately and/or death-rattling] “THAT ONE. The one that says ‘Chubby and Hard to Kidnap.'”
Me: “Ah, gotcha. What size?”
Customer: “I’m a FAT BITCH, my love.”
Me: [blank stare]
Customer: [dropping character] “Extra large.”
Me: “That’ll be $27.06.”
Customer: “My love… thank you.” [deep bow]
At least he wasn’t overcome with the vapors or anything. The slings we just ordered won’t be here until next week, and I’ve got nothing else in stock that would work as a fainting couch.
Marjorie's Forgeries 