Who’s with me on THIS one? I was in the auto parts store last week, TRYING to buy a part for my aging SUV that I’m attempting to hold together for at least another year—OR until I hit the Power Ball, whichever comes first.
So I pick up the fine “Made In Chin-wa” part and make my way to the checkout counter, which finds me staring at the Millennial who’s at the helm; he’s currently “on the phone”, meaning that *I* will have to fuckin’ WAIT.
That’s O.K.—it gives me time to study on the myriad tattoos that are gracing BOTH arms, his neck, and who wants to know WHERE else. I ponder on how much $ he’s got “invested” in this tapestry of hideousity; oh yeah—did I mention the “gauges” he’s got in his ears? What—you don’t know about THAT?! Well, allow me to retort: http://www.wikihow.com/Stretch-an-Ear-Lobe-Piercing. But tattoos and “gauging” are a WHOLE ‘nuther Oprah that you can look forward to on an upcoming Dick Jones entry…
So—our hipster cashier gets off the phone and I step forward, clutching my hope-to-be purchase. I put it down on the counter, he picks it up and is ready to scan it—then the phone rings again. You ALREADY know what happens next, don’t you? ‘Tas right—he quickly puts my potential purchase BACK down on the counter and hastens to answer THE PHONE; I gnash down on my molars.
I’m close enough now to be able to look in on “the back office”, where I see a slightly older, slightly less-tattoo’d dude in there, with “Manager” on his name tag—now do ya’ EVEN think that HE is gonna come out of his womb of safety and help the growing line of people that want to BUY some shit and get on with THEIR respective lives? If so, I want whatever it is that YOU are self-medicating with! Nope—HE is on the phone too, and judging by his animated facial expressions, he’s on the all-important “personal call”; I bite down harder on my grillework, and start counting to ten. I look behind myownself at the other poor dumb retarts that are waiting in line behind me; they are all in their own detached universes, texting on their Smart(?) phones. I ponder on the possibility that I have awakened in some kinda “Matrix” parallel universe…
But WAIT—”my man” is off the phone; now MAY-be I’ll be able to BUY this fuckin’ part, get home, and install it before I DIE OF OLD AGE! Oh Richard—you poor, displaced old FUCK; you didn’t REALLY think that, did you? Sure enough, the-kid-that-I-now-have-vitriolic-HATRED-for picks my part up, starts to scan it with his magic scan-o-meter, when the MUTHA-FUCKIN’ phone rings yet AGAIN!
I feel my un-gauged earlobes begin to get hot; if I had a blood pressure cuff on this very minute, it would be in the red. Hey—wait a minute—IDEA! I jump onto my own Smart phone, find the phone number of this very auto parts store, and I call it myself! “Dick, you ARE a Supa-Genius”, I tell myself, as I see that second light on the store phone start blinking. As predicted, he hastens to clear the other line, and answers my call: “Acme Auto Parts—may I help you?”
“You sure fuckin’ CAN, Slickie—I’m standing RIGHT in front of you, and I wanna buy this part and get home before the new millennium; is that too much to ask, I wanna know?!” He hung up, gave me the Stink-Eye, and silently rung me up. There’s another trick to put in your Felix The Cat Bag o’ Tricks, Kids!