Gotta love a new and stressed out home-owner.
So, there we were at The Home Despot (aka - The Home Desperate, aka - Wall Mart, aka - Stalag 13, aka - New Shrine To The Pathetic And Overly Obsessed Property Slave... etc, etc, etc!) picking up our new and profoundly over-priced stove, refrigerator, microwave oven, washer, drier, insert random household appliances here...
I'm very tired. Let me stress (and I do mean stress...) the word "very" for you, okay?
Its been a long day of closings, title fees, mortgage notes, insurance papers, real estate agents, appraisal forms, legal documents, check passing and everything else that goes along with the purchasing of a new home.
And then some.
My mind is spinning on how fast money is funneling out of my bank account. And this little man, this chattering little weasel-like creature, "Clint", is trying to sell us (by us, I mean my wife, Heather, myself, and the several dozen or so pink, blue, and green faeries fluttering madly around my head...) warranties upon warranties for each new appliance. As if three months pay wasn't enough already, all right?! If this guy were taking blood samples he'd screw the whole intravenous tube and needle thing and go straight for a sapping spigot and 10 gallon bucket!
Shortly into his pitch Mary Lou Jesus-Camp saunters up to explain even MORE great deals to be had!
I've had enough.
'Don't our new bathrooms need to be silicon-ed or something???'
Heather, this is your show now. Have at it with these clowns.
And without so much as batting an awkwardly bent eye-lash I just blurt out, "Hey, Clint? Can you just show me where your caulk is?"
Stops them both dead in their tracks (at least they've finally shut-up!).
Mary Lou turns beet-red. Her priest is going to have a rough confessional next week...
Clint fails terribly in suppressing his did-he-just-say-what- I-thought-he-just-said! shit-eating grin.
"Ummm, you mean our caulking? That's two rows down in Aisle 7."
I fail to find the humor in any of this.
I leave in a head-shaking huff.
Although, immediately afterwards, it does ticklishly get me to thinking, "Wouldn't it be great to just drop trow right about now and waddle over to Aisle 7 with my shorts wrapped around my ankles screaming, 'Hey, where's your caulk! Where's your goddamn caulk, you bastards! I need to find some caulk badly! Right here, right now!'"
The moral of this story is...
Well, there is no moral. Morals have gone completely out the window, in fact.
But, I did find the "caulking" in Aisle 7 just like Clint had told me it would be.
And, also, you can be damn sure that the next time I wander into The Home Depot I'm not going to take any prisoners: "Hey, can somebody tell me where you fuckers stack your Penis Guns around this douche-colony!?"
That oughtta hold the little bastards...