Finishing Move: Super Crotch First Post Attack

Adventures in Retail! #1 *based upon real events*

Random Shitard: Greetings! Do you work here? In this place? This store. The one that I'm in now.

Me: Yes, yes I do. Would you like some soup?

Random Shitard: Pardon?

Me: I'm sorry. I have a disease in my bone organs. It forces me to awkwardly offer people soup in the middle of a conversation.

Random Shitard: That must suck grandmas. Does it hurt?

Me: Not as bad as painting the flabby skin beneath your arm with honey and plunging into a fire ant mound but just a little more than swallowing an unskinned pineapple.

Random Shitard: Well good thing I don't give a rats ass about your stupid girlie soup disease. Anyway, can you help me find a book? A book in your store?

Me: The one we're in now?

Random Shitard: Yes, verily.

Me: What does it look like? In our physical universe I mean. If this was like in one of those Matrix movies it just be a bunch of ones and zeroes and I haven't seen any of that shit around here.

Random Shitard: It's made of paper and bound with human flesh.

Me: You mean like in that better movie?

Random Shitard: Yes, that movie that's better than the Matrix. Have you seen it?

Me: Can't say I have.

Random Shitard: I beg to dipper.

Me: You mean "differ"?

Random Shitard: That too. Because I was in your store before and I saw it right there. Right where you're standing. On top of that ugly blue T-shirt with the picture Chasey Lain maintains a refrigerator on it.

Me: You saw it where my head is now?

Random Shitard: Hot diggity damn, yes.

Me: When was this?

Random Shitard: 12,000 years ago after I crossed the Trans-Siberian Ice Bridge into the North American continent, I was hunting mammoth or something gay like that. I came across your store here. It was during the height of the "Great Mandroid Wars of Space Year XXX89".

Me: You mean the "Great Mandroid/ Manimal War of Space Year XXX89"?

Random Shitard: You're obviously confused and/or an Armenian national. The Manimals didn't revolt against the their cruel masters the Mandroids until Space Year XXX142. God, didn't you even watch that Ken Burns mini-series?

Me: The one about jazz music, baseball or intestinal parasites that build little boats out of peoples poop?

Random Shitard: I can't remember but it was boring as shit and had a bunch old black people taking a lot. Anyway, 12,000 years ago I saw the book I wanted right on top of that pink-ish, stubby, veiny column erupting from betwixt your shoulders.

Me: You mean my head?

Random Shitard: Whatever. Look I'll level with you. I don't really want that book or any other kind of book at all. What I really want is for you to sell me the deed to your head so I can bandsaw it off your body and make love to it in my sun room in front of a captive Indian man named Parunder whom I have handcuffed to my radiator.

Me: Oh. I was really getting worried there for a minute.

Random Shitard: So what do you say? I can pay you your weight in chocolate chanukuah money. What do you weigh anyway? 400? 500 pounds?

Me: I'm about 150 but that is a lot of Chauncey money. I'll have to think about it. Can I have some time to mull it over?

Random Shitard: Sure...And there. You've had a whole pico-second to think over. Now when I do make with the band saw? More importantly, can I stuff the chocolate coins into your neck stump when I'm done? Even more importantly, can I do it commando? Everything is chafing me.

Me: I don't know. Would you like some soup?