Saturday, August 15, 2009

Slaw and Order

I went into Whole Fuckers this morning to get my usual $46,500 salad and my $23,000 bowl of steel-cut oaty-meal. I always throw a few raspberries on it because plain oaty-meal tastes like liquid sandpaper and raspberries taste magically delicious, mm'kay? Now technically the raspberries are on another buffet where everything has to be weighed and shit, buuut no one ever says anything and I'm a shameless thief: the perfect storm.

Well, today Missy Caboodle at the register sees my raspberries resting on the top of my oaty-meal and goes, "Next time you have to weigh the raspberries separately." Whole Fuckers must be getting wise to all the Sneaky White People (SWP) stealing their precious raspberries, meanwhile I just sold my third kidney so I can buy a fucking cardboard box of edamame salad.

Anyway, I just looked at
Missy Caboodle and sort of nodded and said, "Oh, okay" as if I barely understood what she meant, and tomorrow I'm gonna do what everybody else who hears her little warning is gonna do: those raspberries are getting buried in the middle of the oaty-meal, fuckers! Whoo-hooo!! Go, recession!!

Of course Whole Fuckers will eventually get wise to the fruit-smuggling scam and it will go one of two ways: either they'll take away the oaty-meal, which won't happen b/c they charge two dollars for a pint-sized cup and it costs them about two dollars for an entire truckload, so that's a cash cow that ain't getting slaughtered. What they'll most likely do is create a new position for the mentally leotarded/deranged: the Whole Fuckers Oatmeal Cop (WFOC). The WFOC will stand there in his white smock polishing the metal buffet with his wet rag, all the while keeping an eye out for SWPs who try to illegally stow magically delicious raspberries and other rare fruits like bananas and strawberries into their steel-cut oaty-meal. I await the day when I feel those cold, hard 100% organic handcuffs snapping around my wrist. WFOC will flash his hemp-badge and cart me into the back room. I'll be beaten with some bok choy, then stripped and pinned up against the wall spread-eagle. A Vegas jackpot of fruits and melons and unshelled legumes and possibly a bamboo cutting board will then tumble to the floor from the depths of my supple behind. For some lucky WFOC this is the French Connection bust of contraband oaty-meal toppings.

Now if this scenario does occur, I have a plan: I'll become indignant and shout at my captors, "Look what you made daddy do!" Not sure after that. Suggestions are welcome.

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