"Well," squawls the thirteen (13? Frag! But, yes, tis true, I'd say) yonk-awld burd who is definitely NAE getting nae pack ay Cancer Red Cigarstogies, "like, the other guy," she pops her pink bubble gum across her silver braces, "like, um, that OTHER dude sold me smokes the other day."
Us Behind the Counter freezes. We dinnae comment on her ID, a handwritten (HANDWRITTEN; THEY'RE TAE LAZY TAE GIT AY TYPEWRITER, FIR GAWD'S SAKE) G.P.S. (as in, Girls' Prep School, the freakin HIGH SCHOOL) I.D. Card. We dinnae scream the absurdity of her statement. Instead, every vein in our neck near tae burstin, we turn roon.
"Hamm!!" we scream. Hamm shuffles blearily oot ay his Great Reward from the Dark Overlords ay Inconvenience Stores, i.e. the Owners and oother corporate gits, his reward bein a stack of paperwork sae tall I use it fir retrievin packs lost in particularly exciting Cigarette Baseball games from the ceiling. Whae wis I talkin boooot?
Anyway, er, Hamm walks up.
"Hamm," I say, "ye being the only 'other dude' thit works here and all, did you sell this chick a pack of Cancer Reds at any point in her thirteen years on this planet?"
Hamm looks her up and down the way, say, Ishboo (3rd shift clerk at other store) gazed at Tawnka, the Dog Girl, betrothed tae him by his parents still in Pakistan.
"No," Hamm half-sneers, half mumbles.
"I don't believe it!" I scream, my pointed teeth inches from the girl's nose. "He sold you smokes?!?!?!? Justice!!! Hamm, you're fired!!!"
The girl turns eight shades ay pale.
"There," I say. "Happy?"
"I didn't sell her anything," Hamm says.
"There! I fired him! You got him fired, stupid GPS crack slattern! He'll NAE sell the likes aye ye smokes again!!"
"What's a crack slattern?" she pops her gum.
"Ye happy?!?!? He's gonna starve every night now!!! Nae more trips tae Steak n Shake cause he goootttt naaaeee jobb nae money nae poppy whae the fookin A fun I ah i..."
"I'm not fired," Hamm softly assures the girl.
She shrugs. "So, like, do I get my smokes or not?"
The world turns round and rooooon.
Second verse, same as the first.
More or less.
"Well," squawls the thirteen (13? Frag! But, yes, tis true, I'd say) yonk-awld burd who is definitely NAE getting nae pack ay Cancer Red Cigarstogies, "like, the other guy," she pops her pink bubble gum across her silver braces, "like, um, that OTHER dude sold me smokes the other day."
Us Behind the Counter freezes. We dinnae comment on her ID, a handwritten (HANDWRITTEN; THEY'RE TAE LAZY TAE GIT AY TYPEWRITER, FIR GAWD'S SAKE) G.P.S. (as in, Girls' Prep School, the freakin HIGH SCHOOL) I.D. Card. We dinnae scream the absurdity of her statement. Instead, every vein in our neck near tae burstin, we turn roon.
"Hamm!!" we scream. Hamm shuffles blearily oot ay his Great Reward from the Dark Overlords ay Inconvenience Stores, i.e. the Owners and oother corporate gits, his reward bein a stack of paperwork sae tall I use it fir retrievin packs lost in particularly exciting Cigarette Baseball games from the ceiling. Whae wis I talkin boooot?
Anyway, er, Hamm walks up.
"Hamm," I say, "ye being the only 'other dude' thit works here and all, did you sell this chick a pack of Cancer Reds at any point in her thirteen years on this planet?"
Hamm looks her up and down the way, say, Ishboo (3rd shift clerk at other store) gazed at Tawnka, the Dog Girl, betrothed tae him by his parents still in Pakistan.
Then Hamm looks at me. Then Hamm looks at his shoe.
Then Hamm looks at the hand ay his which he's currently placing on his mouth clamping turning red in the face oh gawd ah think he's gonna do it help call the oh never mind that is a salami not an AK-47 and he's wordlessly retreating back tae his paperwork ah guesses he wants tae be left alone fir the remainder ay this rant.
"Well," little squinker repeats as Hamm retreats, "like, the other dude sold em to me the other day and I didn't have no 'valid ID' or whatever." She says "valid ID" the same way I say "spaceships from Mars" tae the guy bringin in awl the mutilated cattle parts.
I clutch the counter. The entire thing, in the span of one, monstrous handspan- it's one ay the privileges ay bein one-one thousandth cartoon on me madre's side. "OH!" I scream. "WELL THEN! SURELY, IF THE OTHER ONE DID IT, THEN I AM REQUIRED, BY LAW, TO NOW BREAK THE LAW AND SELL YOU A PACK OF CANCER REDS, HUH?!?!?!?!?"
When the girl wakes up, I have a feelin she will nae be any wiser.
The problem, kiddies, is I dinnae get these excuses. Sae far I've never heard an excuse good enough to make me sell cigs tae 13 yr olds. Not even, "But it's for my mommmy, who is in the hospital, dying of cancer, and her last request is a smoke..."
My response? To a kid who says ma dyin ay cancer and wants a smoke? Surely ye can guess it.
It's karma, really. Sort of.
Okay. So when I wis well-underage an smokin, I did nae git this sort ay cripe from c-store clerks.
Why? CAUSE I WIS INTELLIGENT ENOUGH TAE NAAEEEE MAKE STUPID EXCUSES, AND NAEEEE WHINE LIKE A SMALL CHILD!!!!!
As I screamed at the fourteen yir-old boy I would nay sell beer tae, "The entire point of the 21 age limit law is cause they dinnae think 14 yr awls is mature enough handle alcohol."
The kid cries like a baby wi nae pacifier. And doesn't git the point.
Oh, well. I guess it's nae karma, since when I wis kid, ah had little trouble getting smokes.
I guess it's just plain meaness.