Yesterday, I deviated from my norm of shake-taking (this is an area reserved for a whole post of its own; for now, I shall leave it alone), and decided to do lunch with the work guys. We went to Chick-Fil-A and I grabbed a salad. Fascinating so far, right?
Anyway, the point of this lead-in is the conversation I had with the check-out guy. Is that what they're called? Check-out guys? Order-Taker? Remover-of-Finances?
Guy: Nice accent.
Me: Well thank you. I was born with it, so I can't really take much credit.
Guy: I enjoy it very much.
Enjoy? Seriously? Like, I could have dealt with. Even love. But enjoy...? I had sudden visions of him not being able to contain himself any longer, and that not being ranch dressing on my salad.
In this case, I happen to think the job title 'Creepazoid' fits him quite nicely.
Poignant, Opinionated, Feral and Female. Be scared. She Squared.
1 comment:
Poor creepazoid was trying to be nice. I don't think it rose to the ranch dressing level.
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