No shirt, no shoes? No problem. No verbs? Problem.
"Pack a Cancer Reds."
"Ambulance."
"Malforbic Ultra Extra Smooths in a box."
"Gun."
"Six packs ay Tiger Wides an a Malforbic Menthol in a box."
"Train."
"White Eejit Chewin Tobaccer."
"Bathroom."
"Barbecue and Sour Cream Extra Bland Chips."
"Police."
Whae does aw these phrases mean? I dinnae ken neither, but Us Behind the Counter is subjected tae them at a rate of approximately 3 per minute. For a while, ah wis thinking perhaps it's some kinda secret code, like the radge comes up tae the counter an says "The crow flies up the bugger's arse at midnight", and then Us Behind the Counter gives him the key tae the crapper, which, ah understand, the FBI has been usin fir a pseudo-genetics lab, which makes Us wonder if perhaps the small, nasty creatures which have declared an independence and liberation and filth and joy upon the sink are nae just the result a the fact that the toilet has nae been flushed in over a decade, but that's another story entirely....
The normal series a events unfolds as follows:
So there I am, standin behind the register, tryin tae figger out whae the "Self-Destruct Sequence Initiated: 3 Mins. Till Thermo-Nuclear Meltdown" message flashin oan the register's screen means. Ah gives a ring tae the Dark Overlords a Inconvenience Stores, Tech Support Division, an explain the circumstances leadin up tae this; a very withered redneck in a confederate uniform came in carryin a quite nasty piece a moldy stickiness, which he explained wis a gumball he purchased here in the year 1871, and has spent the last hundred or so years debatin whether or nae he oot tae chew it, an has now decided nae, so he'd like his penny back. I attempted tae input this info intae the register, so I can open the drawer and get the penny, which gave the register's CPU some kinda hysterical nervous breakdown; it then plugged itself intae the Net, tae receive love and support from its girlfriend, a nice little ATM located on space station Mir (hey, you don't think those astronauts eat fir free)...
Somewhere along the way, Us Behind the Counter is afraid, the transmissions got crossed, and we're gettin confirmation by the fact that Tech Support is screaming incoherently about emergency radio reports from a TVA Nuclear Power Plant an getting intae an underground shelter ASAP. Us Behind the Counter is about tae make a break for the Beer Cooler, which has a sign hanging inside that the cooler was built reinforced and insulated fir just such an emergency, and in the event that it occurs, the beer prices are tae triple immediately afterward. Just then, a Successful White Male saunters up tae the counter.
With nae preface, and in nae context whae so ever, the SWM says, "Pack of Shmuck Deluxe Ultra Super Lights."
I blink.
"Pack of Shmuck Deluxe Ultra Super Lights," he repeats, as if I nae heard him.
I blink, nod, blink. "Yes?"
"PACK OF SHMUCK DELUXE ULTRA SUPER LIGHTS!!"
Us Behind the Counter extends a hand. "Glad tae meet ye, Mr. Shmuck. They call me Mike Madden."
"No, no!!" The SWM jumps up an doon, his eyes a bulgin, his tongue stickin oot, turin eight shades a purple. "Pack of-"
"Aye, I heard ye," I says. "Pack of Shmuck Deluxe Ultra Super Lights." I look at the display beside me, containin many packs a the aforementioned. "Whae aboot them?"
SWM's arms flail. He pantomimes smokin a cigarette.
"No, no," I says. "If yer goona mime, ye no can nae speak, ken?"
Somethin lookin like a kidney stone comes out his nose.
I glance at the register display. "Listen," I says, "I dinnae have much time. Why dinnae ye be me, an then ye can perform whae ever activity or service ye desire fir yirsel, an I'll be you, an, if ye dinnae mind, I'll do my flailin in the cooler..."
Verbs. Until last night, I honestly could nae understand why the SWMs, New Jack Rednecks, an other eejits are utterly incapable a usin them. Fortunately, Super Stoner Boy #13,345 has solved the mystery for Us Behind the Counter...
3:00 a.m. Hamm an I are in deep, delicate negotiations involvin a treaty wi those Things from The Men's Room, who have been engaging in guerrilla warfare wi a mutant hybrid a beef jerky an Pixie Stix (these creatures also look disturbingly like Newt Gingrich), which were produced from radiation after the TVA incident. Both sides claim that God (Us Behind the Counter calls it the Slurpleen Machine, but who know?) gave them the rights tae settle upon the Promised Land, a.k.a. the garbage can next tae Pump Number Eight, an we're about tae get them tae sign the peace accords an begin partitioning up the can when Super Stoner Boy staggers in.
"Good Lord," I whisper, noticin Super Stoner Boy's massive head injuries. "That's awful!"
Hamm gives us a blank stare; since when am I concerned wi the health a the SSB's?
"Nae, nae," I says. "It's terrible - he's gettin his blood awl over the place, an this's the same eejit who the other night recommends we get rid of our condoms, since everyone knows that only drug-addicted faggots get AIDS, not straight white males like us..."
Hamm goes intae a gigglin fit, an I add intae the peace accords that the Things from the Men's Room exclusively get the rights tae clean oop the bodily spews of Super Stoner Boy, the Sacred Prophet...
An hour later, SSB wobbles up tae the counter, an dumps upon the sacred altar these things: a bottle a peroxide, gum, toaster pastries, surgical tape, a six pack a beer, aspirin, an more gum. I begin ringin it all up.
SSB wavers, then croaks, "Pack a Cancer Reds."
I blink.
"Pack... of.. pack..."
I shrug.
"Nevermind," SSB flops upon the counter. He stands back up. "Help."
I blink.
"Train," he says.
I explain that no, this is a counter, nae a train.
"No... train..." SSB, using the red fluid leakin out a the valley in his cranium, draws a diagram upon the ice cream cooler. I gather that apparently he wis out train dodging, and missed.
"Man," I say, continuin tae ring up his purchases. "That's gotta hurt."
"A.. am... ambulance..." he croaks.
"Nope," I says. "Again, this is a counter, nae a train, nae an ambulance."
"Ambulance!"
I shrug. "Weird," I says tae Hamm. "You ever notice how awl these eejits come in hear, shoutin nouns at Us Behind, wi no further explanation?"
"Yeah," Hamm says. "I don't get it. Maybe it's some kinda eejit mating ritual, the shouting of the nouns."
SSB falls to the floor. "Ambulance..."
"Sorry," Hamm says. "I need a verb."
"Now," SSB gasps.
"Nae," I shake me head. "That's an adverb, nae a verb."
Ten minutes later, Hamm is on the phone wi the Dark Overlords a Inconvenience Stores, Customer Service Division. "Dr. Inconvenient?" Hamm says. "Know how you wanted a cadaver to do some experimenting upon? Well, guess what...."
The doc determined that years of inbreeding has caused the eejits' DNA to, in some places, change from a double to a single helix. In particular, this has affected their language skills, and the parts of the brain needed for forming complete sentences have long since been devolved out a the eejits.
To help combat this problem, Us Behind the Counter is Starting the Eejit Verb Fund. Us Behind has only so many tae spare, so donations would be appreciated. We are a non-profit organization, dedicated to gathering and delivering verbs tae those who so desperately need them. In particular, verbs like "give", "call", "need", and "want" are needed. Donations may be e-mailed tae me, or you may leave them in specially designated ashtrays upon the counter of your local c-store. I assure you that I each and every verb donated will be used by an eejit who needs it - whether they want tae or nae.