I Will Bring Coupons

Okay, it's 9:30 at night and I'm going to rock this thing like the Caucasian Hurricane we all know me to be. First of all, let's all be happy that no terrorist has thought about making exploding money. Or money that gives you diarrhea. That'd be a real struggle for people, because everyone loves money. But do you take the rest when there is exploding feces involved? I'd risk some death poop for a $100, I think. I guess the only thing for our country to do is to start putting little bits of exploding devices and diarrhea germs on our currency so we can build up a little bit of a resistance. And then when the terrorists finally do strike us, we'll be so used to buying things while pooping our pants in the midst of violent explosions, we won't even notice. U-S-A!

To the cashier at the HEB this afternoon, we really had some camaraderie going today, didn't we? I know it wasn't just me. When that African guy in front of me couldn't remember the word for cologne and he was holding up the line, you gave me a wry little grin. I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. We were just two strangers united by our love of groceries and our intolerance for foreigners; we didn't know where this was going to go.

Then, standing there in line, reading over the latest shitstorm that Oprah's got herself into, you started text messaging me on my cell phone. It was innocent at first ("What up, dude?"), then it became flirtatious ("Looking at that butt makes me wish I'd brought my sketch pad"). Finally, it was downright bawdy ("Press 1 if you want me to show you my boobs."). How did you get that number? And how did you know that I liked boobs?

And then later, when you were scanning my items, and while no one was looking, you reached into the cash drawer and pulled out a big wad of bills and shoved them down my pants. "No one will see!" you whispered frantically. I was afraid because I respect and honor the supermarket institution, but you were brave enough for both of us. The Manager came over and asked what the problem was. Why were my pants torn apart, my pockets stuffed with money, and the cash register empty? Why isn't the cashier wearing her underwear? He asked me to walk with him back to his office, and then you stepped between us. "This is Cody Powell," you said. "He is a handsome millionaire, and if you don't leave him alone, he will have his henchmen kill you." All I could do was smile and nod; I am very humble. As I walked out, I heard you start to cry. I didn't know what to do, so I did the only logical thing: I turned around, rifled through my bags, and threw you a Fudgesicle. Yes, I will be back next week, and I will bring coupons.

Posted by Cody at July 14, 2003 10:41 PM