Well, it's Monday. Another week has gone by, which means we're all one week closer to the sweet relief of death. Yes, even you. Can you feel it inching ever closer like a lion stalking its prey? How will it end? Will it be quick and painless, or will you go out kicking and screaming while choking on your own tongue? Rest easy; you'll soon find out.
Anyway, I wanted to talk a little about lines. No, not the ones you snort up your nose every day silly. What, you thought no one knew? Shit man, the chapped nostrils and jerky movements are both a dead give away. Remember what I said about death? If not go back and start at the beginning. Go ahead, I'll wait. All set? Good, now try to concentrate snuffles, because I'm about to hit you with some awesome.
What I mean are the lines we're all forced to stand in when we want to get something important accomplished, like returning a piece of shit weed whacker that you bought at Wal-Mart. Or is it Walmart now? Doesn't matter, because they can go fuck themselves either way.
There's nothing more exciting for a guy than purchasing a power tool, especially one that runs on gas and can take someone's face off with the greatest of ease. Our heart beats faster and our palms get sweaty, and the second we get home with our brand new toy we want to rip open the package and get to ruining shit. It's just our nature ladies, much like Lifetime movies and getting pregnant are yours. Don't try to fight it.
So I bought this weed whacker, got it home and commenced to whacking. Then halfway through the job it just stopped working. No sputtering, no winding down; just stopped. I tried to restart it at least a bazillion times, and it was just as I was about to see how well it doubled as an ax -- I have this tree in my front yard that really needs to go -- that my girlfriend came outside and calmly said the following:
"Why don't you just take it back?"
The thought hadn't occurred to me, but when I stopped to think for a few seconds I realized that getting my money back was preferable to wrapping that fucking thing around a tree trunk. Plus one for the little lady.
Fast forward a bit and there I was, standing in line at the Wally World service desk. All I wanted to do was return the brand-new-but-inoperable piece of lawn equipment I bought, but as often happens when people of vastly varying mental capacities are in close proximity to each other things didn't go exactly as planned.
Everything was going smoothly for a while, and I was starting to think that I'd get through this experience lickety-split. Then, with only one person to go before I added my weed whacker to the junk bins behind the counter, the farm animal in front of me had to go and fuck up what was looking like a quick in-and-out. It began like this:
Walmart or Wal-Mart Employee: "Hi, can I help you?"
Farm Animal: "Moo. I hope so."
She then proceeded to dig through her feed bag, which apparently was doubling as her purse, for something. A receipt? Bag Balm? Who knows, because after a good minute or so she abruptly stopped riffling and placed an unopened curling iron on the counter.
FA: "I bought this about a week ago and don't need it."
WME: "OK, do you have your receipt?"
FA: "I thought I did but I can't find it. Let me look again."
At this point my blood pressure began to rise, and the longer she dug through her wheat and oats the more I wanted to brain the bitch.
FA: "I'm sorry, but I don't seem to have it. Oink."
WME: "No problem, but without a receipt I can only give you a store credit."
FA: "No cash?"
WME: "No cash."
FA: "But I just bought it a week ago."
WME: "I understand that, but it's company policy to issue a store credit as opposed to cash in situations like this."
FA: "Well moooinkwhinny, I don't want a store credit. I need my money back."
WME: "I understand ma'am, but it's company policy."
FA: "Since when?"
It was at this point that my mind went completely blank and I started daydreaming about hands clenching throats, feet stomping heads and power tools turning back fat into curdled milk. Then I remembered my weed whacker. Without realizing what I was doing I reached down and gave the pull cord a quick tug, and with a sound like an ancient beast waking from a long slumber the whacker roared to life.
I swung the machine in a hich arc, bringing it down on the back of the farm animal's bulbous head, and as skin began to spray the walls in thickets I threw my head back and cackled.
"No cash!" I screamed as the woman's head came apart in front of my eyes. "No ... fucking ... cash!"
As she fell to the floor, her head now resembling a peeled apple, I bent down and emptied the contents of her purse on the buffed floor. The bag was seemingly endless, but after the last piece of lint finally fluttered to rest atop the scattered debris I noticed something white sticking out from under a jar of pickles.
"Here's your receipt," I said as I plucked it from the pile. "Now get the fuck out of my way. And next time you decide to return something I suggest you ..."
"Sir?" the Walmart or Wal-Mart employee cautiously said. "Can I help you with something?" She looked scared and unsure of herself. Poor girl.
I quickly realized I was the only one standing there, a big stupid grin on my face and the weed whacker clutched in my left hand.
"Uh, yeah," I began. I shook my head to clear the remnants of death that still clung to my brain. "I bought this earlier today and the damn thing just stopped working."
"Do you have your receipt?" the employee asked.
"You know," I replied while digging through my pockets. "I thought I did."
Behind me I heard someone groan in disgust.
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