It's been a busy weekend here at the Mansion. As you remember, we kicked it off Friday night with a trivia contest. Saturday morning The Pony and I did the shopping. No sooner did we get our provisions home, unpacked, and stowed away than it was time to take The Pony back to town for his bowling league.
I was pretty tired from my previous 36 hours. Friday had been my duty day at school, plus we had an assembly where I got to stand around for fifty minutes. So I almost decided against stopping by the gas station chicken store for some scratch-off tickets. I had some previous winners with me to cash in. I knew I would regret it if I arrived home with no tickets. So off I went to the station of chicken. I had no intent of buying chicken when I entered the store. Then I smelled that magical aroma. It's been a long time since I partook of the petroleum-seller's fowl. Besides, my lunch at home was going to be braunschweiger on Bunny Bread with mustard and onion. Which meant I had to slice a couple items and squeeze the mustard. That wasn't going to cut the mustard with me, being so tired and all.
I walked past that counter and looked at the chicken case. It appeared fresh enough. There was no chicken picker present. So I almost decided against the crispy greasy goodness. Then the new clerk, a tall, portly skinhead-looking fellow, said, "Do you want something from the kitchen?"
"I'm trying to decide. Okay. Yes. I want to order from the kitchen." He hit the secret buzzer that must do something like shine a light in the batcave to summon the chicken pickers. Then he kept staring at me. I didn't want to tell him to take a picture, it would last longer, because he might actually have whipped out a phone and taken my picture. I was tapping my scratch-off winners on the counter. There was nobody else in the store. "Here. Do you want to take a look at these while there's nobody in line?" I'm all about keeping the clerks out of a jam in case it gets busy. But then that smart-a$$ had to open his mouth and bray.
"Sure. I'll take a look at them. Do you want me to check them for winners?"
"Yes. I want you to check them for winners." A$$hole. The little old chicken picker was as pleasant as could be, but this a$$hole was really getting on my nerves. So much that I made a note not to do business there again when he was working. Even the stern monotone countback clerk would be ten times more acceptable than this a$$hole. Everything he did was like he was mocking me. Like he was secretly a blueblood millionaire, gathering information on how the little people live. I cashed in my tickets and bought more. The a$$hole tossed them on the counter like he was too good to ever buy a lottery ticket. A$$hole.
I took my chicken home and hauled it and the scratch-off tickets down to my dark basement lair. I set aside three tickets to send to the #1 son in a card later in the week. Then I put the others on my stack of winners on top of a Puffs With Lotion box. Mmm. Gas station chicken. I actually had a breast that looked like it came from a chicken, not a quail. I hope that old chicken picker wasn't in trouble for giving me the good stuff. After consuming that tasty bird boob right down to the bone, and the wedge fries that accompanied it, I turned to my tickets. I had a cornucopia of a smorgasbord of scratchers. Loser. Loser. Loser. Three dollars. Four dollars. Five dollars. Five dollars. WAIT A MINUTE! That last one wasn't five dollars. It was five HUNDRED dollars!
Darn that a$$hole all to heck!
It is not fitting that an a$$hole should sell me such a good ticket.