Customer: “I’d like a bottle of Max Impact, please.”
Me: “Sure! That’ll be $24.89.”
Customer: [counting out ones] “Heh. It’s my stripper money.”
[I chuckle. He hands me a wad of cash.]
Customer: “No, really. I’m a stripper. This all came out of my g-string.”
Me: “…”
Customer: “The ladies at the bank openly judge me whenever I make a deposit. And oh, hey, look! Someone tipped me a two-dollar bill.”
You know, I have not led a sheltered life, and I have many wonderful friends who make their livings in and around the sex industry, but still… I really don’t need to know when I’m handling sweaty junk-money. Not even when it’s in unusual denominations.
My novelty hand sanitizer is getting such a workout tonight, you guys.
Marjorie's Forgeries 