Tales from the Sev

The clerk at my 7-Eleven always asks prying questions about whatever I’m buying. For example, the other day I picked up three boxes of macaroni (because that’s what Canadians eat) and while I was paying for them he asks, “So, how much macaroni you gonna make?”

I don’t know, sir, maybe something like three boxes? Probably not all at once, but aside from it not really being the guy’s business, that seems like an obvious answer. I guess I could go and buy more macaroni at another store, or maybe I already had some at home, but I’m reasonably certain that he was asking about the macaroni I was buying from him then.

I didn’t know how to answer him without being a dick about it, so I just smiled.

“Like a lot of macaroni I bet. Right?”

Perhaps we should weigh it? I don’t have the necessary equipment at home, so how about we meet up after your shift and take the macaroni over to your place to conduct some science? While I’m eating you can weigh your face, and when I’m finished I’ll shit in your mouth and we’ll see what the difference is. Deal?

He doesn’t always ask questions. Sometimes he just makes an observation about the product I’ve presented him with. He once commented that my Slurpee was “really big,” because I guess he had never seen anybody buy that size before. I know for sure he’s never been close enough to the Slurpee machines to clean them, so it’s possible that he hasn’t noticed the cups.

I realize I sound pretty fat in this story. The point I’m trying to make here is that I want a Slurpee and his shift doesn’t end for an hour yet.

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