The people in the grocery check out line change in relation to how heavy a load I’m carrying. It always seems that whenever I’m carrying a shitload of groceries and have elected – once again – to forgo a cart or basket that a bleach blonde mother of six with skin the consistency of an overcooked slab of sirloin demands eight cartoons of cigarettes (different brand for each of her abusive boyfriends) from the Korean expat behind the counter who can’t understand a word. On the other hand, when I’m picking up a carton of orange juice, there’s no line up at all and the checkout girl is a astrophysics grad student at her part-time job. Caveat: if what I’m picking up is a stack of Maxim‘s and a travel jar of vaseline, the clerk will invariably be a supermodel.
Nobody who has attained a college degree has ever thought standing on their deck, drinking Molson and hurling come-ons to passing women of any age, shape or size is a good way to spend a Friday. Not that eating a family sized bag of Doritos and watching Skyline is any better but you get the picture.
Every single man who wears sunglasses after 9 pm, during a rainstorm or, like that ray of sunshine I just passed on my way home, both, has drilled a hole in the girl’s locker room wall at some point. Or he’s spent a summer taking upskirt pictures on the C-train. I can’t prove it. But I know it.
If the government truly cares about the well-being of its citizens it should provide a personal chef to anyone who’s set off the smoke alarm in their house more than 15 times in a calendar year. How many more times must I set fire to the stove before someone stops me? My landlord can’t like hearing this thing go off. Hell, even my dog has lost all confidence in my culinary abilities. He runs to the door the second I flip on the stove. It’s a public service. LIke taking the keys away from a drunk or an octogenarian.