People

Kanye vs. Kenya

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Can a self-described musical genius possibly compare to a small East African republic? Sure! In a world where the Pope can have an opinion on airport body scanners, absolutely anything is possible. We put the post-colonial nation and the tiny-penised Grammy hoarder side-by-side and here’s what we found:
SIZE
Kenya is slightly more than twice the size of Nevada. But Kanye’s ego is larger than life itself. No contest. Point: KANYE
FINANCES
Though Kanye considers himself priceless his net worth is actually in the neighborhood of $25-30 million; certainly not too shabby for a semi-literate, boorish, megalomaniac. But, with its 2008 GDP of $62.4 billion Kenya could buy Kanye many, many times over. It could even afford the hefty $50 million price tag Russia’s space agency would charge to launch Kanye into a geosynchronous orbit. Point: KENYA
CLIMATE
Kenya’s diverse climate ranges from tropical on the coastline all the way to arid on the interior. That’s actually not too much different from Kanye who ranges from heated/angry on the outside all the way to empty on the inside. Point: DRAW
INFANT MORTALITY RATE
Kenya’s infant mortality rate is 54.7 per 1,000 live births, putting it right ahead of Cambodia and right behind Azerbaijan. Kanye finds himself above top-rated Singapore (2.31/1,000) because, as far as we know, the Grammy-winner has neither produced any babies nor killed any during childbirth; a fortunate fact not only for Kanye but for the whole world. Point: KANYE
OTHER NAMES
Kenya was originally called the British East African Protectorate, but since 1920 has been known by his current name. Though originally called Kanye in 1977, the Atlantan has also acquired a variety of colorful names ranging from asshat to festering twatwaffle. Point: KANYE
RELIGION
Kenya is home to a variety of religions including a majority of Protestant and Roman Catholic faithful, as well as Muslims and many indigenous tribal religions. Unfortunately, Kanye’s unwavering faith in himself as the center of the universe is incredibly powerful but not technically a religion. Point: KENYA
LANGUAGES
Kenya’s official languages are English and Kiswahili. Numerous indigenous languages are spoken throughout the country. Kanye’s official language is English (not fluent) and ALL CAPS which he uses in email correspondence. Point: KENYA
HAZARDS
The nation of Kenya is subject to recurring drought and flooding during rainy seasons, both natural disasters that can not be avoided. Kanye is subject mainly to man-made disasters, including but not limited to: disrupting benefit concerts with tirades, disrupting awards shows with tirades, playing the race card, pouting and stomping, and general behavioral malfeasance. Point: KENYA
THE WINNER
We hope Mr. West will take consolation in the fact that he’s totally special and really, amazingly talented and probably should have won if the world wasn’t out to get him but the wee East African republic managed to – just barely, Kanye! Don’t be upset! – squeeze past history’s greatest musician ever. Match: KENYA

A Trillion For Your Thoughts

After the recent release of the 2011 Federal Budget there was no shortage of complaints from all over the political spectrum. Of course, one of the biggest grumbles is that it’s 192 pages of incredibly boring fiscal drudgery. The fix? Make it entertaining! Some of America’s top entertainers offer their ideas on how the Office of Management and Budget could spice up this dreary affair:
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CARROT TOP Comedian
“I would have a page in the budget that has a big bite taken out of it. Then I would have the President hold it up and say, ‘This must be page ate!’ Get it? It’s like they ate the page, which is a pun on the word eight.”
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MEL GIBSONFilm star
“The budget, like a movie, needs to keep the viewer riveted. Every chapter should infer that a shadowy network controls the economy. We keep people guessing until the very end, and then we go off on Jews and call our publicists.”
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KIM KARADASHIANFragrance
“I would pepper it with inexcusable spelling and grammatical errors, like my Twitter updates hases.”
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QUENTIN TARANTINODirector
“I’d have you reading about the Department of Labor, then a quick flashback to the Department of Veteran’s Affairs expenditures in 2007, then back to present-day Department of Labor, and then suddenly you’re looking at a blood-spattered chart highlighting the Department of Education’s purchase of laptops in 2005.”
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DIDDYMusician
“I would record myself saying “Uh huh” and “Mmmm Hmmm” over the 2009 Budget, and release it as the 2011 Budget.”

Five Haikus About People and Their Frickin’ BlackBerrys

LIBRARY
The tiny keyboard
Still makes enough of a sound
To distract, bastard
KINDERGARTEN TOUR
Very important
The future of his children
Never once looks up
THE PARK
A child on a swing
Daddy, daddy, higher please
But he is texting
STARBUCKS
Can I help you sir?
Excuse me, can I help you?
Sir? Can I help you?
GOTHAM BAR
All businessman types
Emailing just like at work
But here they are drunk

Britney Spears: The Index

Children:
as byproduct of coitus with twits, 49, 121, 208
driving with while unrestrained, 54, 100
losing custody of to a dunce, 210
making of, 48, 191
nearly throwing across parking lot, 87
Comeback:
planning of, 210-211
unfortunate debacle of, 218
Crotch:
as sales device, 2
exposing to paparazzi of, 154
shaving of, 28-30
surrendering to parasites of, 46, 87, 89, 102
Marriage:
and failure to pre-nuptialize, 120
as spontaneous decision like buying gum, 92
making a mockery of, 110
making another mockery of, 119
Midriff:
as signature, 9
exposure of, 33,41,102
failure to maintain, 209
Money:
acquisition of great amounts, 31
failure of to buy class, 190,193,200
failure of to buy love, 78,119
Penis:
married to a, 109
Phoning it in:
while in court, 119, 220
while on stage, 202
while in studio, 201
Public Restrooms:
walking barefoot in, 112
Relationships:
caliber of, 66
list of, 91-101
regrets about having, 139, 194-200
Tabloids:
adoration by, 10,23-40
targeting by, 212-224
Underwear:
disdain for, 56
non-use of, 58,77,92,119,123

I Touched Kevin Federline, and He Touched Me

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The day started like most do: My alarm clock made a terrible noise which I have grown to resent. As always, Omar the cat with the not-so-good learning curve waited to get underfoot so I could trip on him as I tiptoed to the bathroom.
Little did I know that I was tiptoeing to destiny – only moments from stepping on my cat, but mere hours from my hand touching Kevin Federline.
The first hint that my life might be taking an exciting new K-Fed-related turn was when my producer said we’d be conducting our Senate candidate interview in a conference room that Showbiz Tonight would also be using. When I heard their guest was Kevin Federline my heart skipped a beat – like a bad musician.
Up to this point, nothing in my life could have prepared me for the experience of meeting Mr. Federline. I’d met many celebrities but they had all been famous for things like singing, or politics, or being pretty, or acting in films. Never had I met someone who was famous for marrying the legendary, oft-pregnant Britney Spears. This, I imagined, would be a larger than life moment – bigger than a vision of St. Clare telling me TiVo was doomed.
In Saving Private Ryan Spielberg brilliantly conveys the terror the soldiers felt as their landing craft approached the Normandy coast. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that’s exactly how I felt when I realized I would soon be deposited on the shores of Federline Beach to storm the bunkers of his mind.
All day my thoughts were consumed with the potential meeting and frankly, nothing else mattered. This was a man who had at least twice humped, unprotected, the woman who sang Oops! I did it again. Over and over in my head I tried to recall the etiquette for being received by an emissary of pop culture. I was sweating – and I’m positive it’s not just because I was wearing three layers and drinking hot coffee.
When we approached the room in which Mr. Federline was said to be located, my heart raced. Could it be true? I saw a lone black gentleman in a yellow leather jacket sitting outside the room. I knew this just had to be K-Fed’s posse.
Minutes later the door opened and there on the eighth floor of the Time Warner building I found myself face to face with Kevin “K-Fed” Federline. Here, before me, a man who had married and babied with Britney Spears – and by doing so had shown that no matter how rich and famous a girl might be, she’ll always revert to her true roots.
My world changed at that moment. There would be no going back, unless I turned around to go to the break room.
The greatest thing about K-Fed is he seems like a totally common person. I had always imagined he’d enter the room on a litter carried by slaves. He’d be wearing fine silk garments and Britney’s jewelry, and I would bow a gentleman’s bow and he’d allow me to approach. But it was much, much different than that. He really seemed like an average person. In fact, if I hadn’t known better I might have assumed he was there to deliver Anderson Cooper’s lunch fritters.
Turns out Kevin, despite being an incredible superstar, has the unpretentious air of a go-kart mechanic.
Indeed, my companion – Green Party candidate Howie Hawkins – was introduced and had absolutely no idea in whose great presence he stood.
“Are you a New York voter?,” said Hawkins.
“Anfg, blurble, mrrrph, no, no,” mumbled Kevin, who raps.
Howie handed him campaign literature and a Green party pitch. Kevin took it all in with grace. He’s as soft-spoken as the Dalai Lama and has mastered the ability to explain himself in as few words as possible.
“Cool,” said Britney’s future ex-husband.
I was thunderstruck when I realized that within moments the world-famous Federline would be taking his gaze off of Howie and directing it at me. It was now or never. When we made eye contact my instinct kicked in. “Hi Kevin. Brian Sack,” I said. Our hands connected and I immediately realized my firm grip was nothing compared to Kevin’s limp, regal squeeze.
I wondered if one day I would be able to deliver a handshake as powerful as an infant’s wheeze. I knew that the answer would be no, for I am nothing.
People often say that at very intense moments – such as right before you pilot your helicopter into a mountainside or plummet off a building – life seems to slow down. In most cases that’s because your brain perceives the potential for grievous bodily injury and wants to enjoy the last few seconds it has left. But in the case of touching Kevin Federline’s hand, it’s different. Your brain slows down because you can’t believe you’re touching the very same hand that’s been used to both cup the fake breasts of and collect allowance from pop-goddess and Madonna-kisser Britney Spears. Was I not, at that very moment, only two degrees separated from another music superstar – one who can adopt black children on a whim? Amazing.
I could feel my heart racing (I believe this is conveyed in the photograph) and my mind filled with a thousand thoughts: Why is he mumbling? What is he saying? Are they done with the conference room? Who’s the gay guy with the Technicolor dreamscarf? Is Laurin Sydney still on Showbiz Today? Or is it Showbiz Tonight? Why, God, why?
Just as soon as it had begun, it was over. Having been stunned by Kevin’s Clintonesque charisma I was unable to come up with anything to say. It was as if we were playing a game of Dungeons & Dragons and Kevin was a powerful level 14 wizard elf who’d cast a silence spell on me. Compared to Kevin I was a mere goblin. Or hobgoblin. Whichever one is smaller.
It was probably a blessing that the time was short anyway. What good would more time with him have been? What can I talk about other than books, news, history and wine? Kevin doesn’t need to know of these silly “little people” things. The best I could have offered was my opinion that Kanye West is a twat. But I would not dare risk upsetting such a man with my insignificant views on things I don’t understand.
Within moments, short girls yammering on mobile phones had guided Kevin away from me. Nevertheless, with a man like Kevin a brief moment is all you need. Those few seconds put me in a unique class of individuals: People who have touched Kevin Federline’s hand. My life was going to be different from that point onward, and I knew it.
Once the excitement had died down, I made it a point to tell Howie who he’d just met.
“He married Britney Spears,” I said.
“That guy?” asked Howie.
Yes. That guy.
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Diddy’s Daddy Tips

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Sean P. Diddy Puff Combs offers tips on fatherhood from the confines of a black rectangle which is slowly crushing him to death.
A baby is stimulated by love. Have someone from your entourage say love things to your baby.
When you the daddy, you got a responsibility if the court says so.
A child’s love is like a rectangle that’s slowly crushing you to death when you’re in your pajama suit. The more you ignore that love, the more it closes like a collapsing rectangle – wrinkling your pajama suit and making you dead.
Your baby looks up to you. Be a role model. Keep him from reading the news if you in it.
When you make a baby with a woman, half that baby is you and half that baby is her. Can you believe that?
If a black rectangle is doomed to collapse into a singularity, you best not let your friend Janeese tell you to go stand in that black rectangle.
The happiest children live in a home with a mommy and daddy, but the happiest daddy lives in a home with a lot of mommies. Sometimes you got to make a decision.
If people accuse you of being a bad father, just talk all over them like you was recording an album over someone else’s album.
Wear sunglasses all the time. That way your child can’t see your eyes and thinks you’re looking at him.
When your lungs are being compressed by a black rectangle, take quick breaths like some random woman having your baby.

Travis Bickle On Broadway

How our taxi driver made Saturday night memorable.
1. Driver’s last name was “Goldfinger”, which is unusual.
2. Driver was American, which is also unusual.
3. Driver had a thick New York accent, which is amusing.
4. Driver was smoking, which is illegal.
5. Driver flew down Broadway and Seventh with his hand on the horn, braking abruptly and cussing like a sailor, which is uncomfortable.
6. Driver said “I wanna chop someone’s fucking head off tonight” which is disconcerting.
7. Driver launched into tirade because another taxi stopped to pick up passengers, which is illogical.
8. Driver was very mad at “niggers” for making him go around their garbage truck, which is objectionable.
9. Driver claimed “The bigger the nigger the smaller the radio” was a common expression, which is peculiar.
10. Driver pulled up to a woman and offered to throw us out of the car if she got in, which is awkward.
11. Driver ranted about “bitches”, which is disagreeable.
12. Driver overshot our destination by a few blocks and didn’t turn off the meter when going back, which you don’t complain about under such circumstances.

Dear Lady Squatting In Our Midst

Dear Madam:
New York City has jaded me in many ways – in part because the streets are littered with the insane, the degenerate and the hopeless. Truth be told, whether we’re forced to contend with pierced twenty-something loafers asking for cigarette money or toothless drunks sleeping on dried dog-urine, most of us find it all quite routine. Boring even.
It’s obvious that every psychiatric facility emptied its inventory onto the streets. That, combined with the sad fact that people no longer feel the slightest bit of shame asking strangers for money, means that the sheer quantity of wretched souls makes it impossible to recall any particular details about them. In the end, they are merely folks that wanted something for nothing, or carried on conversations with a lamppost. Tired, tired, tired.
However, once in a great while during a routine stroll down the mostly well-ordered streets one will encounter a person with whom interaction leaves some kind of lingering memory. Or, in your case, an emotional scarring so horrible that while it was being violently laser-etched into my brain it incinerated all happy memories from 1968 to present.
The last such person to make a vivid impression and earn a few bytes of my memory was an old black gentleman two years ago. It was a sunny autumn day, a weekend, fairly cool. He had apparently been enjoying the contents of the empty fifth in his hand. We arrived at the scene after the fact, but it didn’t take a degree in forensic science to determine what had transpired. At some point post-consumption of his adult beverage, the gentleman had experienced the urge to empty his bladder – yet seems to have not had the motivation to actually bring his bladder somewhere. Instead, he’d removed his enormous penis and emptied the bladder’s contents upon himself and a section of the sidewalk in close proximity to his penis. Apr�s-pee, his beverage got the better of him and he took a nap, exposed penis in hand.
This image was fairly unique, I’d even say extraordinary, and so it’s one I still recall quite vividly. I considered it my ultimate New York sidewalk experience. Until Sunday.
Sunday was a lovely day. Sunny and brisk. The baby was well behaved and dozed right off after a bottle of milk. While my wife pushed the stroller, I followed behind alongside my buddy Mike – a former improv comrade visiting from out of town. We were recovering from a lovely night that had begun with visiting a friend at Saturday Night Live and ended in the wee hours at some After-After party filled with bimbos. In fact, I had hoped to be writing about that evening right now, and had already begun organizing the paragraphs in my head as we strolled towards SoHo.
But you had other plans.
The mind is never prepared to process the visual of an obese, middle-aged woman in a pink hat leaning against a car, pooping. The mind can not be trained to suffer that horror in any capacity. Nor should it have to.
When it does encounter such a traumatic optical assault, the brain’s first response is to deny. This isn’t happening. But reality can’t be denied. Even though countless brain cells die trying to prevent the acceptance of such foul memory, it ultimately breaks through. It then makes its way to the recesses of your brain – to one of the small villages therein. Perhaps a place called Memoryton. Once there, it rapes and murders everyone in the village. Then it sets fire to it and slaughters the goats for good measure.
That was the effect of seeing you before us in broad daylight, propped against some poor soul’s tire whilst grinning, pooping and making full eye contact with every passerby.
And there were many.
My wife was smart enough to sense that something was amiss, and was able to divert her gaze and guide the stroller in a different, safer direction. She was unscathed. But Mike and I and certainly many others were not so lucky. If you had been Sodom, we’d have all been salt.
Madam, I’ve seen dead people, grisly crime photos and a guy from New Guinea with testicular elephantitis – but it was you who provided me with the most disturbing visual image to date. And nature was an accessory to the crime too: The sunlight was perfect, illuminating your underside just enough to create a darling silhouette of your ongoing efforts, as well as a few accomplishments which rested peacefully on the newspaper you placed underneath yourself.
And how proud you were. Beaming with joy as you made eye contact with us. All of us. But Mike in particular. Mike is traumatized – quite so – and if he survives he may very well never come back to this city again.
That visual, the smile, your roundness, your pink hat and the cursed eye contact: it was the perfect recipe. Kudos. You have earned a place in the memory books of dozens. Perhaps hundreds. In my book you’re somewhere near the front, well ahead of the time I nearly lost my fingers in a freak watermelon-cutting incident. Probably a few pages ahead of the crazy Jesuit priest.
Our time together was brief, but somehow it seemed like an eternity. Perhaps because the image will be with us long after the earth is swallowed by a supernova.
We’ll never forget you. Just ask Mike. Or the unsuspecting French people who passed us. Or the scores who shared what should have been a most intimate moment. Countless people now ask themselves the same two questions: Why did we look? and Why did you look back?
Congratulations madam. You’re a somebody. And if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.

Helpful Plastic Surgery Tips

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Plastic surgery works best when not a manifestation of inner turmoil and despair.
When confronted with your husband and a young woman having sex, consider plastic surgery to be an option. However, divorce and Second Degree Homicide under Mental Duress are also viable options worth considering, especially when plastic surgery may fail to win your philandering husband back.
Putting $50,000 into your kitchen leads to a better kitchen. Putting $50,000 into your face does not necessarily lead to a better face. This is because your face is not a kitchen.
To judge the success of your plastic surgery, stand outside. If people try to chase you off of a cliff with pitchforks, consider finding another plastic surgeon and getting a second opinion.
That said, individuals who make their living performing plastic surgery are not likely to admit you do not need plastic surgery. This is true of most professions. A car salesman will always try to sell you a car, even if you resemble the front-end of a Dodge Durango 4-Wheel Drive.
Moderation is not a vice. If your Day Runner contains notations such as “Get plastic surgery” more than three times in a given month, you are in danger of being overzealous.
Some alternatives to plastic surgery include: strategic use of blush and eye-liner, brushing teeth, and encouraging others to love you for who you really are.
If who you really are has been completely replaced by the monstrous visage you have created, stay indoors and watch Twilight Zone episodes Eye of the Beholder, A Short Drink From A Certain Fountain and Number Twelve Looks Just Like You. You will be somewhat comforted and well prepared for your deathbed epilogue – to be delivered by Rod Serling.

Eavesdropping, Pt 3.

“Vote? Sheee, I can’t even vote on what I’m gonna have for dinner.”
-Gentleman’s response to a 42nd Street voter registration team
“Am I going to be rich when I get older?… My sources say no. Aww.”
-Boy playing with a Magic 8-Ball at Toys ‘R’ Us
#1: “J-Lo is so rich, she could buy ten Bentleys and never go broke.”
#2: “She buggin’.”
-Two St. Luke’s Hospital Nurses

Eavesdropping, Part II

“The firefighters were fighting with each other. Like. And so they couldn’t turn the fire off.”
Gentleman talking to friends on 7th
“…you’re asking me to live with my sister and another woman, and I just can’t do that.”
Woman on mobile phone in Chelsea

Plastic Bag Man

Standing behind a gentleman at the Whole Foods on Seventh Ave. His transaction is taking longer than normal. He’s a small guy, bearded. Geeky comes to mind. He’s nervously fiddling through his front pockets, looking for something. Money I assume. The little Asian girl behind the counter smiles and waits patiently. He’s mumbling as he’s looking, aware there’s a line behind him. I’m annoyed, but quiet.
“As you can imagine, not having enough bags is my worst nightmare,” he tells the girl. She smiles.
For a moment I think that perhaps he’s talking about picking up after his dog. During any given stroll down the street you’ll see some poor fool with a dog kneel down and collect their pup’s poop with a plastic bag. It’s a lovely spectacle capable of rendering the latest supermodel completely unappealing. Perhaps that’s what he meant. But he doesn’t have a dog with him.
Then he turns a bit and I realize he was totally serious. Not having enough bags is definitely his worst nightmare. He’s got one bag on each hand, secured with a rubber band. And indeed, he’s been rifling though his pockets for money as I had thought. What I hadn’t realized was that each bill he was removing was individually wrapped in its own plastic bag. The reason for the delay was he had found an individually wrapped twenty and an individually wrapped one in his pockets, but needed to find another indivdually bagged dollar bill.
While he searched I desperately tried to get the attention of my wife, who was in a nearby aisle. She looked over at me but I was unable to convey the fact that someone with an amazing Obsessive Compulsive Disorder was delaying my purchase of wheat germ.
He finally found the second bill, wrapped in plastic of course, and presented the still-smiling cashier with the three bags. She opened them, placed the bills in the till and rang up the transaction. Which wasn’t complete yet.
“Here’s your change,” she said, offering him some coins.
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” he replied, waving it away.
She offered him the receipt.
“No thanks,” he said.
He moved away from the counter but continued to look through a bag of smaller bags. I have no idea why. As we headed towards the door, he was still engaged in some sort of bag operations, BagOps as they’d be called in the military, but I decided not to stare. In what must have certainly been his second worst nightmare, he dropped the box of whatever it was he had purchased on the floor.
A whimper of an “Oh.”
I didn’t stick around for the conclusion. I wanted to get my wife outside where I could describe what I had just seen, to which her only response was, “Why does he not just buy gloves?”

Stone Age 21st Century Lady

Seated at the table next to us in this old-fashioned, charming steakhouse, a man and woman. Both early 40s, I’ll presume. Both were a little heavyset, the woman more so. She was short, with dirty blonde hair. They had both recently consumed the restaurant’s signature two-person Porterhouse and were now contemplating dessert. Their conversation revealed they were not on a date, but rather associates of some sort.
The gentleman excused himself to make a phone call. The woman waited until he was out of visible range, then proceeded to pick up the gargantuan Porterhouse bone and gnaw on it.
Now, there was little meat on this bone. They had both previously done a good job of removing it using the utensils the restaurant had thoughtfully provided. However, the woman gnawed on the bone with such violence in her quest for protein that one would be inclined to think she hadn’t eaten in a fortnight.
The sucking noise was the perfect auditory accompaniment for the sight we were beholding. After gnashing the bone, she would suck loudly as to draw in any bits of meat loosened by her fore-teeth. She would then break free of the bone and suck again to clear out any spaces in her teeth occupied by any micron of beef. Vacu-flossing, if you will.
Her fingers and face glistened with oil.
After what seemed an eternity, she placed the bone back on the plate and made use of a napkin. Her companion returned shortly after. They both discussed how happy they were that their dinner had been low in carbs which apparently warranted the ordering of dessert and coffee.

Eavesdropping, Part I

“Bitch! They making me pay child support because you on motherfucking welfare, bitch!”
Tattooed gentleman, and daddy, in the middle of the sidewalk on 5th Avenue at 18th.
“No, not the Will Smith nigga, not that nigga, the other nigga… was in the movie with that bitch, the nigga bitch, uh…”
Someone the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. might be disappointed with.
“Well tell me then,where have you been while this was going on? Have you been shitting in the woods?”
A businessman using the not-so-familiar “shitting in the woods” analogy.

The Germ Freak

Standing behind a gentleman at the Whole Foods on Seventh Ave. His transaction is taking longer than normal. He’s a small guy, bearded. Geeky comes to mind. He’s nervously fiddling through his front pockets, looking for something. Money I assume. The little Asian girl behind the counter smiles and waits patiently. He’s mumbling as he’s looking, aware there’s a line behind him. I’m annoyed, but quiet.
“As you can imagine, not having enough bags is my worst nightmare,” he tells the girl. She smiles.
It’s a strange comment, and for a moment I think that perhaps he’s talking about picking up after his dog. During any given stroll down the street you’ll see some poor fool with a dog kneel down and collect their pup’s poop with a plastic bag. It’s a lovely spectacle and can render even the most attractive folks completely unappealing. Perhaps that’s what he meant.
That hypothesis dies instantly though, when I realize he was serious. Not having enough bags is definitely his worst nightmare. He’s got one bag on each hand, secured with a rubber band. And indeed, he’s been rifling though his pockets for money as I had thought. What I hadn’t realized was that each bill was individually wrapped in a plastic bag. The reason for the delay was he had found an individually wrapped twenty and an individually wrapped one in his pockets, but needed another dollar bill.
While he searched I desperately tried to get the attention of my wife, who was in a nearby aisle. I caught her eye, but was unable to convey the fact that someone with an amazing Obsessive Compulsive Disorder was delaying my purchase of wheat germ.
He finally found the second bill, wrapped in plastic of course, and presented the still-smiling cashier with the three bags. She opened them, placed the bills in the till and rang up the transaction. Which wasn’t complete yet.
“Here’s your quarter,” she said.
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” he replied, waving it away.
She offered him the receipt.
“No thanks,” he said.
He moved away from the counter but continued to look through a bag of bags. I have no idea why. As we headed towards the door, he was still engaged in some sort of bag operations, BagOps as they’d be called in the military, but I decided not to stare. In what must have certainly been his second worst nightmare, he dropped the box of whatever it was he had purchased on the floor.
A whimper of an “Oh.”
I didn’t stick around for the conclusion. I wanted to get my wife outside where I could describe what I had just seen, to which her only response was, “Why does he not just buy gloves?”