May 19, 2011

One for the books.

I have a habit of forgetting stuff, so the blog is a nice way for me to catalog stories that I think are worth preserving... provided I remember to do so.

This story has nothing to do with anything, but I absolutely can't bear the thought of ever forgetting it.

INT.   No Frills  -- SUMMER -- A fairly dead Saturday afternoon.

I am at the checkout, glancing at tabloid covers, while the seventeen-year-old cashier — let's call her Betsy — is turned away from me, chatting with her friend who's at the helm of cash 3. I'm a little spaced out, and not in a big hurry, so I let them gossip about their Saturday night plans.

While deliberately trying not to stare at the cleavage on the cover of Us magazine, I catch a surprising fact...

"She's such a slut."

Say what? I look up and notice that Betsy is now ringing in my groceries.

"Who's a slut?" I inquire enthusiastically; hoping to get the low-down on Ms. Lopez, Aniston, or whoever the waif-du-jour is.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Betsy glances back at her friend, and in a sheepish voice says...

"Um... Stacey."

No further questions, your honour.

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