Tuesday, November 13, 2012


Gloria and I went out to dinner on Sunday night.

"Did I tell you what happened to me at Target today?" I asked.

"I don't think you did," she said.

"I'm at the counter," I said, "and the checkout lady goes, 'Are you a doctor'?" [and from here on, I'm going to quote this like the conversation with the checkout lady is happening live, which is against all known grammatical conventions, but a hell of a lot easier to read.]

"No," I say.

Fifteen seconds later, the checkout lady says, "Lawyer?"

Again, I said 'no'.

Twenty seconds later: "Congressman?"


Just before she handed me my change: "Judge?"

"No," I said, "and I only regret that I never fulfilled any of the high hopes you had for me."

Gloria laughed, then she said, "That lady was flirting with you."

"She was six-foot-three, fifty, and had buck teeth," I said. "That's what I'm pulling these days."

"I forgot to tell you that a man in his sixties was hitting on me in the grocery story the other day," she said.

"No worries," I said. "You still absolutely qualify as a MILF."

"Thank you, I think," she said. "He really was a very sweet old man."

"They all are," I said, "until they get you into their dirty little dungeon."


"Just imagine him wearing leather underwear," I said. "That's ALL he's wearing. And his potbelly is is hanging over."

"Oh my god," she said, laughing.

"And the age spots on his scalp," I said. "Don't forget those. Hey, I think I see Cuba!"

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