Max, Max, Max - Tsk, tsk, Unemployed

So I head back to the counter of the watch department to get an explanation for a perceived mistake. In my rudimentary and infantile mathematical abilities and capabilities, I was sure and convinced that the bizarre sales lady who spoke French with a thick Gaspienne accent, had made an error typical of a region with 22% unemployment. Each time she spoke I had to look up and stare at her shabby formless lips to get a snapshot of what she was saying. Indeed, with her borderline imitation of a fallen Gaelic language, she was barely discernable. She annoyed and irritated me. Alas, 35% off Timex jogging watches is a rare sighting in these parts.

Her sale technique was new and was something I never quite encountered before. In French, she began with an aloof proclomation that she had shish-taouk for lunch and asked - and I translate - "Do I 'ave bad bret?" In my head I mutter 'What the fuck is this about?" I answer "Non." "De garlic can be bad on de bret" she continues. To which I calmly recite to myself "Ok, like this is not gross. I'm supposed to picture you naked next to all these watches and here you are babbling about garlic sesame spread in a Leb sandwich?" The giggling and chuckling you hear was all in my head. "Whoa! Penetration by a Casio!" Anyway, her next irreverant tactic was to point out that she knew nothing of how the functions worked. It was fine with me as I'm not retarded like she clearly was and was perfectly capable in figuring out. Besides, these suckers come with a manual. What does she do? She decides to fiddle around, laughing like a complete cunt, with the monitor. Pressing 'chrono', 'recall' and 'setting' as if it was a dang game. I wanted to tell her "Don't do that to my watch you...Stop that befor I slap you hard off the side of your cratered face!" Anyhow, she punched up the bill, I paid and left.

Which brings to the next prize. When I returned to ensure that there was no mistake another 'woman' was at the counter. The previous one was probably spreading her tits with hummus in the back no doubt. It took a few seconds for my eyes to focus but when they did I was in a Reveen-like trance. I was being served by the Bearded Lady! As she was explaining away, I wondered "What the frick is the hiring policy in this place? Who does the the interviewing? Doug Henning? Do they post them in train stations, fourth rate strip joints (the kind where you are greeted with on tooth. Been there I have) and the circus?" The whole time I could not get my eyes off her face. She literally had a beard. Like my father beard. Grey whiskers were pertruding out of her tiny face like awkward thorns stick out of a dead yellow rose. In fact, I called her Grey Whiskers and understood nothing of what she explained to me. "Why, that clears things up. Thanks." I said. "You're welcome." she replied. "Now go join your colleague at the freak show in the back" I said nodding my head in amazament. Only she was, as if I should be surprised since she was a Werewolf, long gone by then.

Insert 'Werewolves of London' by Warren Zevon here.

Just a quick word on weatherpeople. What is the purpose and fascination with a weather report during the newscast? Don't people know that they are not climatologists but apologists for the weather industry who never get the forecasts right? Worse, having to listen to local yo-yo anchorpeople quip with pseudo-humor about how it's the 'weatherman's fault' always fucking reduces me to talking jibberish to myself while I stroke my monkey. Stroke my monkey, Frolov and Gonchar!

The weatherman, it must be said here and now, is a cardboard image. "There's a slight disturbance forming over South Central Quebec this evening and this may lead to more precipitation in the early morning giving way to light fog and heavy heavy by mid-morning in which grey clouds will move in and out all day with some sunny breaks and light wind moving gingerly East at a speed of 10km/hour leading some trees to sway gently under a sunset that will bring temperature down to below averages for this time of year. Wear a sweater, Bob! Over to you!" "Sure, will Todd. Will need one while I bum fuck you in nothing but your rubber boots in the forest under the enchanted stars as you howl like a fucking crazed hungry wolf and delusional deranged nympho! Good night everyone!"

Signing out with the usual 'Hardee-har-har.'

1 comment:

  1. Bending Todd the bearded, lycanthropic meteorologist over a stump under the enchanted stars always makes me think about time. Time to get a new watch, time for a sandwhich.


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