Last Thursday I went to the Salvation Army to look for a bicycle. Like all the lame-o hipsters concerned with cycling aesthetics, I want an old Schwinn. Disregard the fact that my laziness has reached the point where I am too much of a sloth to cross the street for some Gatorade; if only my bicycle were cute, surely I'd get off my bum. So I scooted over to the ol' thriftorium and checked out the wares. No bicycles were to be found (other than a Huffy Sweet Style, anyway), but I figured it couldn’t hurt to take a look-see at the clothing.
I started moving through a rack of some shirts, standing about four feet from a woman in her late thirties. She looked like your typical blue jeans & t-shirt kind of Chicagoan, the kind of person who wears Oakleys and rocks out to Foreigner when she’s feeling saucy. She was browsing and coming my way, as I was going her way. When we were about two feet from each other, I excused myself and moved to her right. She glared at me. I started flipping through the racks again, when suddenly the woman violently shoved the blouses my way. I jumped a little as she yelled, "GET YOUR OWN DAMN BLOUSE RACK! THIS IS MINE! I WAS HERE FIRST!" I then realized that I was dealing with the modern equivalent of the Jabberwocky.
"I’m sure there’s room for both of us," I offered meekly. Because let’s be honest, Jabberwocky didn’t need the whole 6-foot rack to find the finest in poly-rayon blends. "YOU LISTEN HERE, MISSY," growled Jabberwocky. "MAYBE NOBODY EVER TAUGHT YOU ANY MANNERS, BUT YOU NEED TO KEEP TO YOURSELF." I suppressed the urge to inform her that one of my favorite columnists is Miss Manners, and instead, evenly explained, "Oh, but you’re the one being rude." The rabid Jabberwocky then snarled and continued her shopping. I could have given her a saucy comeback, but then I thought, "What would Audrey Hepburn do?" For starters, Audrey Hepburn wouldn’t be shopping at the goshdamned Salvation Army. So I left, hopped on my Vespa, and pretended to ride down the streets of Rome.
I started moving through a rack of some shirts, standing about four feet from a woman in her late thirties. She looked like your typical blue jeans & t-shirt kind of Chicagoan, the kind of person who wears Oakleys and rocks out to Foreigner when she’s feeling saucy. She was browsing and coming my way, as I was going her way. When we were about two feet from each other, I excused myself and moved to her right. She glared at me. I started flipping through the racks again, when suddenly the woman violently shoved the blouses my way. I jumped a little as she yelled, "GET YOUR OWN DAMN BLOUSE RACK! THIS IS MINE! I WAS HERE FIRST!" I then realized that I was dealing with the modern equivalent of the Jabberwocky.
"I’m sure there’s room for both of us," I offered meekly. Because let’s be honest, Jabberwocky didn’t need the whole 6-foot rack to find the finest in poly-rayon blends. "YOU LISTEN HERE, MISSY," growled Jabberwocky. "MAYBE NOBODY EVER TAUGHT YOU ANY MANNERS, BUT YOU NEED TO KEEP TO YOURSELF." I suppressed the urge to inform her that one of my favorite columnists is Miss Manners, and instead, evenly explained, "Oh, but you’re the one being rude." The rabid Jabberwocky then snarled and continued her shopping. I could have given her a saucy comeback, but then I thought, "What would Audrey Hepburn do?" For starters, Audrey Hepburn wouldn’t be shopping at the goshdamned Salvation Army. So I left, hopped on my Vespa, and pretended to ride down the streets of Rome.
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