(Editor’s note: Today’s post is dedicated to one of the most adventurous, fun, sexy, strong and slightly askew human beings I’ve ever had the privilege of calling “friend”, a young lady who has my great affection and has earned my respect at her decidedly ripe old age of 24 (25? I think she’s 24), which by the way is 3.43 in dog years. Thanks, Mags, for brightening all of our lives…the world was denied a fine person when you weren’t born twins.)
Okay, I’m done…I just wanted to write that dedication.
I recently took a poll among the various officers and crew members of the venerable ship the R U Kidding, looking to determine if they, like myself, think that Polish as a written language wouldn’t be near as interesting to read without all those curlicues and squiggly things they attach to the letters…they look like they’re trying to grow roots and branches and limbs and shit.
No, what I really asked them was who they thought was the biggest asshole ever to walk the planet, Donald Trump, Ron DeSantis, Greg Abbott, Charles Manson, Adolf Hitler or a person of their choice. (They all refused to participate unless I allowed them a “write-in” candidate, and they also made me let them answer anonymously…when I saw their responses I understood why, the ungrateful cretins.)
There were two votes for the former and no longer President Donald Trump, one vote for the My Pillow goof, Mike Lindell, a vote with which I completely agree, and 18 votes with my name written on the ballot.
Later on that day, my First Mate Taffie Wetzel came to my cabin and told me that the guys were just having some fun with me, and that they really all would have voted for that repulsive shitwad Sidney Powell, Donald Trump’s “Kraken” lawyer who is about thisclose to being disbarred from practicing law anywhere in America and in several foreign countries as well (Poland has said that if Powell shows up in Warsaw to try a case in court that they will immediately launch an invasion into Slovakia) for her advancement of and litigation concerning fake (i.e., crazy) 2020 Presidential election fraud theories.
I think she was lying. My First Mate, I mean. I know the dumbass lawyer is lying. (You’ve heard the old joke about how to know if a lawyer is lying…are his/her lips moving?)
So let’s talk about characters (no, I don’t care to be bothered with segues).
In addition to being the Captain and Master of the good ship the R U Kidding, I also, as most of you probably know by now, work part-time at a Publix grocery store here on the Left Coast of the Gunshine State (Florida) as a Front Service Clerk, which is a prime example of typical Publix corporate jargon…I’m a bagger.
At work I am surrounded by “characters”, people who, in one way or another, are not quite right, as in approaching bat-shit crazy, if you get my drift.
Allow me to give you an example…
(I was going to give you an apple fritter but I don’t have any, but Publix does.)
Yesterday, in the midst of my shift, one of our Customer Service persons called me over to the CS counter, needing to tell me something. Now let me digress a moment for some clarification…
If my family name was Post, my parents would have named me Deafasa. I wear hearing aids; my audiologist says that if she had to characterize my hearing loss in one word, that word would be “profound”. (True story.) So they help me to hear, immensely, but unfortunately, grocery stores are really, REALLY loud places. Don’t believe me? Next time you’re shopping, stop and listen, I mean really listen. There’s the background hum of the ventilation system fans, the whirr and chirr of rolling carts, the almost constant “boop, boop, boop” of the registers as they announce to the cashier and most of the surrounding county that the item has scanned properly, the overhead PA speakers, barking out instructions for the Embalming Department to take the call on Line Two, children screaming at the ignominy of being refused a candy bar and all manner of noises that fall in the “Other” category that add to the cacophony. (It would be pretty funny if every other register said “Betty”. Betty, boop, Betty, boop, Betty, boop, all day long.)
So here’s the CS person, my good friend the Pixie Girl, who by the way has total cosmic sweetness, is at the top of the “cutie” scale and a very good sport for allowing me to tease her all the time about pretty much everything. She was saying something in her rapid-fire but soft speaking voice from behind a cloth mask to a guy who wouldn’t hear a cannon fire even if it went off back in the Deli Department, something about an electric cart, a gallon of Lime Jello, two Frisbees, a black Tahoe and all-you-can-eat chicken tenders, all the while pointing towards the back corner of the store where we have the milk coolers and the chain saw display.
So being the epitome of subtle, I delicately enquired as to what she had said, i.e., “PG, what the hell are you talking about?” She knows that with me, often times there is only here, and no hear.
An interpreter was brought in and it was explained to me via sign language, raised voices and printed page that a customer had phoned in and requested an electric cart be brought out to her car (a black Tahoe), as she was unable to walk due to having just had foot surgery. (Good thing it wasn’t hemorrhoid surgery…she probably would have wanted me to carry her around the store.)
(Ahh, a really cool idea just hit me…Publix could get a couple of those sedan chair thingies for each store, you know, the chair on a platform thing that some king or Grand Vizier or Winnie the Poohba from olden days parked his butt on and then was carried around by several big strong guys in matching loose trousers and vests. We could charge people an extra 50 bucks to have four Front Service Clerks (baggers) carry them around the store, like they were the Pasha of Genoa salami Italy or the Duke of Earl maybe. Hey, it’s just a thought, okay?)
I never did get a completely lucid answer as to why the PG was pointing southeast towards the milk and yogurt section of the store instead of southwest towards the parking lot, where typically patrons park their cars. I have never found a vehicle in the Dairy Department. (We have cows in Dairy. There are, however, no cows in Bakery.) All I got from PG was her cute little grin and a denial that she was pointing in the wrong direction, which of course was patently untrue and had added greatly to my confusion at the time. (I’m deaf, not blind, you stinker.)
She’s a snot.
It could have been worse…one day last week an LOL (little old lady) walked up to me, and judging from the way she was moving, I would imagine she was born sometime during the Reconstruction, and asked me where she could find “assholes”. (My immediate thought was to tell her to try either Washington or Tallahassee, but my more judicious side overruled my major smart-ass side and I said pardon me, ma’am, I didn’t understand your question. (Here not hear.) What are you looking for?
Assholes, she says through her mask, a little agitated.
Drive cross-state to Palm Beach, lady…there’s a big orange one living at the Marm-a-Lardo Resort there.
Ma’am, I’m really sorry, I still don’t understand what you said.
She pulls her mask down and in a disgusted voice says to me, Where. Do. You. Keep. The. Apples?
Ma’am, go right down this aisle until you get to the rubbers and then hang a left.
She looks at me, shocked.
Young man, do you just say “rubbers’?
No, ma’am, I said assholes.
Love and Beltone,
Post Script…hey, Mags, if you guessed that the PG’s real initials are SK, you’d be in the right aisle to find the apples.