aka .. the travails of purchasing a Sunday 'Bune. Cruising into Big Foot to get a newspaper, I was confronted by an annoying queue. Three ahead of me in line to pay was a stringy-haired young man in a ball cap. He was buying a polar pop and a loaf of bread, and he was using a credit card. Sigh.
Between him and myself was an undecided duo, who were gesturing in an "after you, my dear Alphonse" manner to each other, until it got settled that the man would go first, and the chubby girl with a bare midriff demurred. The man's purchase was a pack of cigarettes, which meant that the befuddled geezer at the cash register had to shuffle around to locate the exact brand request; and, naturally, the man wanted to add a scratch-off ticket to his final tab. Grrrrr.
I admit Ms. Chunk was a surprise. She had no purse to play in and out and out and in money games with; and she summarily dropped her dark brown wrapped Hershey's candy on the counter, and brandishing a 20-dollar bill, she efficiently announced that she also needed 10 dollars worth of gas on pump 2. Brilliant.
If I hadn't had a 'Bune under my arm, I probably would not have noticed all this, a delay line not being phenomenal in nature. But I had it in my head that I wasn't going to start reading the 'Bune until I could spread it on my desk, at home. Moreover it is uncomfortable for me to read standing up.
The 'Bune is now placed in position, but I have to see whether the Braves or Reds win today's tight one first. Anything to delay the torture. And gee, maybe the cats are hungry by now. And does the grass in the back yard need cut again?
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