For grafs like this:
I bought some taco shells before leaving; the clerk, an immense creature who resembled a six-foot soft-serve ice cream treat, asked howr you. I said “damp.” She gave me a look of such unbelievably bovine incomprehension I almost apologized for not saying “fine.” It was almost a warning: don’t get fancy. We don’t take to fancy here. That’s one of the reasons I don’t go to that grocery store anymore. They hired the clerks from the cast party of a Fellini movie and ran them through a Hee-Haw filter, then eliminated the ones who were so antisocial they had fewer than three tattoos of their children’s names on their arms.
I can’t wait to see the novel.
She probably had no idea it was raining. To discover it was raining, she would have had to look out the window, and the window is not in her work area.
The only times she turns her attention out of her work area is to call a supervisor because the bar code didn’t scan correctly, or to gossip with the random co-worker at the next register.
Good one. But his ruminations on the Pilsbury Doughboy are still matchless.
I love the “Hee-Haw filter”. I could just picture the clerk as a female Junior Samples.
Orv, I try to picture that and get Lulu Roman — though she doesn’t look that way anymore.