Archive for May, 2015

Yup. That was a Volkswagen Golf.

CANON CITY, Colorado.

A six year old boy is suspended from school in Canon City for kissing a classmate on the hand.

His mother says it’s a crush and the two children like each other. But the school is calling it something else; sexual harassment.

First grader Hunter Yelton told us he loves science and phys-ed. Also, that he has a crush on a girl at school, who likes him back. It may sound innocent enough, but at six years old Hunter now has ‘sexual harassment’ on his school record.

“It was during class, yeah. We were doing reading group and I leaned over and kissed her on the hand. That’s what happened,” said Hunter Yelton.

Because of this behavior, Hunter was at home on Monday instead of at school.

“They sent me to the office, fair and square. I did something wrong and I feel sorry,” he said.

“She was fine with it, they are ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’. The other children saw it and went to the teacher. That was the day I had the meeting with the principal, where she first said ‘sexual harassment’. This is taking it to an extreme that doesn’t need to be met with a six year old. Now my son is asking questions – what is sex mommy? That should not ever be said, sex. Not in a sentence with a six year old,” said Hunters’ mom, Jennifer Saunders.

The superintendent at School District RE-1 says any school record remains within the district. And Hunters’ actions fit the school policy description of ‘sexual harassment’

The school district also says Hunters’ parents may believe that kissing the girl at school is overall acceptable- but that’s where the school disagrees. They’re hoping the suspension changes Hunter’s behavior. Hunter is supposed to return to school in Canon City on Tuesday.

How dare you, Hunter Yelton? HOW DARE YOU?  Are you serious? Kissing your girl on the hand? And in reading group? Sacrilege! Outrageous! Get that kid sexual harassment counseling! The fact that he doesn’t know what sex is, let alone harassment, is beside the point!

And how about those little narcs that went to the teacher? You know what I used to tell my kindergartners – snitches wind up in ditches with stitches. You best remember that, Canon City, Colorado first-graders.

But seriously, Hunter’s taking it like a man, huh? “They sent me to the office, fair and square” he says.  Gotta respect that.

Nice work, School District RE-1. That’s a well thought out and fair act of discipline if I ever heard one. Way to keep a level head and not over-react. Keep up the good work. We must teach these sexual perverts a lesson!

On a related note, I would have never made it past the first week of pre-school if this type of behavior was a suspendable offense at Twin Elementary. I kissed girls like I owned the place. 

So my birthday was on December 3rd, just like every year. Weird how that happens. Anyway, I got the normal barrage of best wishes for a happy birthday on Facebook like everybody does, and of course I appreciated every single one greatly.

However . . .

I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that I have some observations regarding said birthday wishes. You see, wishing someone a happy birthday can have many layers, many different colors and tones if you will. They all have subtle differences, whether intended or not. I’ve taken the liberty to break them down for you, my loyal readers.

Let’s take a look. My first group is . . .

The Jump the Gunners

The Jump the Gunners somehow become confused and shoot out a “Happy Birthday!” too early. It’s usually just a day or two, but one of my friends may have set a record this year by doing it on November 3rd, a full month early. My friends are weird.

The Thoughtful Ones

These people who actually take the time to write you a short sentence or paragraph, something along the lines of, “Hope you have a great day, man! Your friendship has meant a lot to me and blah-blah-blah.” My personal favorites come from former students who I have influenced in a positive way. The Thoughtful Ones always make me feel special, and who doesn’t like that?

The Jokesters

The Jokesters are the friends who write stuff like “Happy 40th!” when everyone knows I’m now a youthful 63. I take this as a compliment, as if they’re telling me that I actually look 40, and not a jab at me. But hey, 60 is the new 40, right? Right? On a related note, 63? For realz? Man that went by quickly.

The Photo/Video Posters

These considerate and thoughtful people actually take the time to post a picture or video for you. McCartney’s “Birthday” is a popular choice, and one year my friend Clinton posted a spectacularly sparkly cursive “Happy Birthday!” which brought a smile to my face.

The Singers

The Singers give you the basic, “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you . . .” and basically go through the entire lyrics to the song. Singers are a perky bunch. I hate perky.

The Funky!

Some choose to get wacky with their birthday wishes and go nuts with a post that looks like this:

hApPy HaPpY bIrThDaY!!!!

I actually cut and pasted that from my Facebook page, kids. And you know what? I like it. It took effort to keep hitting and unhitting that caps key. Plus they said hApPy twice, which is double the happy, not to mention the four exclamation points. That’s just over the top insanity right there.

The Procrastinators

Obviously these friends forgot your birthday so you get one of those “Happy Belated Birthday!” messages. On a related note, if I miss somebody’s birthday I usually just let it go. Why draw attention to myself by pointing out I was late? Meh. I’ll get another chance next year.


In addition, there are several other ways to say Happy Birthday. For instance . . .

First we have the run-of-the-mill folk who go with the old tried and true, and those are the people that simply write . . .

Happy Birthday!

Yep. Simple but effective. Imaginative? Not really, but it’s the thought that counts. Sometimes people get a little excited though, and lay one of these on you:


You know, somehow, for me at least, the all caps makes it seem as if the person was REALLY EXCITED for me. The all caps people make me happy. On the other hand, you have the well-wishers who can’t seem to get too worked up for you. Those people give you this number:

Happy Birthday.

Easy there, dude. Don’t get too excited. And thanks for taking the time to add the period at the end. But at least these people typed it out, unlike this somber greeting:


I swear it took me a second to put two and two together and realize the initials stood for Happy Birthday. And technically it should actually be HB, right? What could be worse? Oh, wait. There’s this:


Oh boy. These people not only couldn’t expand the energy to hit the caps lock, they couldn’t even take the time to add a period. Thanks bud.


But hey, they made an appearance, right? All good!

And just so y’all know, I do run down my friends list to see who neglected to wish me a happy birthday. If you forgot me your name is on a list, and I am capable of holding a nasty grudge.

But remember, it’s never too late.

LAKE WALES, Fla. Police have arrested an 82-year-old Lake Wales man 1for slashing a woman’s tires because he claimed she was sitting in his favorite bingo seat. Fred Smith was charged with criminal mischief last Monday when police say he took an ice pick to 88-year-old Ethel Britt’s van during a weekly bingo game at the Lake Ashton Retirement Community Club House. Police say Smith stormed out of the bingo hall and punctured two of Britt’s tires because she was sitting in a chair he usually sits in. Smith was caught on surveillance video in the act. 

Listen, I’m 100% behind Fred Smith here. There are some things in life that should be met with repercussions, and one of those is taking somebody’s bingo seat. Think Ethel Britt will ever take somebody’s bingo seat again? I think not. Lesson learned, Ethel Britt. Lesson learned.

Free Fred Smith! Free Fred Smith! Free Fred Smith!

90’s One Hit Wonder.

Yeah, so this pig was busted in Shelby County, Michigan for crimes unknown. Maybe he was hamming it up alongside the road, we can’t be sure. Wait. I bet he was in an illegal porking zone. In any event, he was bacon to be released and so he was. Check out Mr. Pig here, just chillaxin’ like a boss in the back of the police cruiser like you read about. And tell me how you could look any cooler in the back of a cop car. You can’t. This pig don’t give a damn about nuthin’.


Very interesting.

Note: If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a million times, nobody writes titles like voiceme. I’m so proud right now.

Anyway, I thought that’s who it was, at least for a second.

Here’s what happened . . .

A few months ago I was strolling into our local Blockbuster store (now closed), just minding my own business, probably going in to rent The Big Lebowski for the eleventy-third time.

Note to self: Actually buy a copy of The Big Lebowski.

Note to reader: If you didn’t recognize eleventy-third as a Tolkien reference, I don’t even know you.

Anyway, as I cross the parking lot I hear a man’s voice. Not an ordinary voice, but a tinny, disembodied voice from somewhere . . . else. It echoed as if coming from a helicopter or police bullhorn or something.

The disembodied voice simply said, “Mr. Shoe.”

I froze. At first I thought it was the Voice of God or something, but I was 77% sure that God wouldn’t refer to me as “Mr. Shoe.” I was pretty sure HE would call me “Mr. Shoemaker” or even “Dave” but then again I couldn’t be positive, now could I? And the fact that I may or may not have heard angels singing is beside the point.

As I stood there looking around quizzically, I heard the voice again . . .

Mr. Shoe.”


And then, in a sing-song voice . . .

M-i-s-t-e-r  S-h-h-h-h-h-o-o-o-o-o-o-e.”

OK, now I was a tad freaked out. Have I  mentioned it was late at night?

Just as I was about hit my knees or run back to my car screaming like a 12-year old girl, I heard the voice laughing. And then . . .

Over h-e-e-e-e-r-e!

Only then did I look over towards the Kentucky Fried Chicken joint next door, where one of my former students was manning the drive-thru window . . . and talking to me through the drive-thru speaker.

Damn kids.

Now, although I’m fairly certain this type of behavior goes against KFC protocol, the kid must have thought this was the funniest gag ever pulled, as evidenced by his laughter that could undoubtedly be heard through the speakers from a quarter mile away.

What I wanted to do was run over there and kick him in the Snack Box, but what I did was yell,  “Ha-ha, real funny! Why don’t you go kill some poultry!”

I know, not my best retort, but I was still a bit shaken.

So that’s it, the story of my encounter with the disembodied voice that I thought may have been God that was actually a former student working at a KFC.

What can I say? I lead a strange but often interesting life.

PS – Now that I think about it, I think God would call me “David”. I don’t know no why but I’m fairly certain of it.


Gotta check his messages between quarters.

So Dwight Howard’s Houston Rockets got bounced from the playoffs last night, the 11th time in 11 years he’s failed to win the NBA Championship. Dwight has proven to be a constant underachiever and is widely-known as one of the softest 6′-11″. 275 players the league has ever seen. More proof that Dwight doesn’t “get it” came after last night’s loss to Golden State. Here’s his quote:

“It’s tough, but I won’t stop fighting. I’m going to continue to push myself to the limit and remember that, no matter how he season ends, I’m still a champion. And I won’t let anyone tell me anything different.”

Isn’t that cute? Dwight thinks he’s a champion. Seriously, after the game this guy acted like he’d won. Doesn’t have a competitive bone in his body.

Somewhere, Kobe Bryant is shaking his head.

Love it.

That's how you do it.

That’s how you do it.

MASON COUNTY, MI – It was a sticky situation for one gas station clerk in Mason County’s Branch Township who apparently didn’t add enough sprinkles to ice cream as part of a customer’s order.

Mason County Sheriff’s Office deputies were dispatched to a store in the 6100 block of East U.S. 10 in Branch Township when a clerk reported a disturbance inside the store.

Kim Cole, Mason County sheriff, said around 8:16 p.m. on Saturday, May 23, a woman, along with a male companion, came into the store and ordered ice cream. When the ice cream was handed to the woman, the transaction took an unexpected turn and the woman struck the clerk in the head.

“The clerk called police. The customer was upset because she didn’t have enough sprinkles,” Cole said.

The clerk was not injured. It wasn’t clear whether the “short-changed” customer took the ice cream with her when she left, Cole said. The clerk did not wish to press charges.

Seriously man, I’m not mad at this customer. If anyone ever needed smacked it was this gas station clerk. Listen, you can short-change the relish on my cheeseburger, you can short me a few fries, you can give me a coke after I ordered a diet coke. But never, ever leave me short on my ice cream sprinkles. This clerk is lucky she made it through this transgression alive.

On a related note one of my cardinal rules is to never by ice cream in a gas station. But hey, that’s just me.

Note: Why didn’t the lady just ask for more sprinkles? I’m befuddled.


Bethlehem, NH: In a touching story worth sharing, a high school principal was brought to tears when the senior class unanimously decided to give up their class trip to donate nearly $8,000 to her medical care.

“She’s just very caring, very selfless, and we wanted to be selfless, too,” Ian Baker, a senior at the school, told ABC affiliate WMUR-TV.

Principal Courtney Vashaw of Bethlehem’s Profile School for both junior and high school students has worked hard to teach her students about caring for others and being compassionate across her seven-year tenure, but never expected that the lesson in kindness would come back to benefit her.

“Every one of us has a connection with her, and she has given so much to us that we just wanted to give back,” said Christopher Sirois, the senior class president.

Vashaw told her students that she had been diagnosed with a rare cancer of the soft tissue earlier this month, explaining that the illness would put her out of school for some time.

The heartbreaking news came just as the seniors were about to leave for their four-day senior trip to Rydin’ Hi Ranch in New York. Though after hearing of their principal’s health concerns, the seniors took a vote and unanimously decided to donate the trip’s nearly $8,000 expenses to Vashaw as a gift.

“We decided to not go on our senior class trip this year and donate all of our funds to your cause,” Baker told Vashaw as the seniors gathered around her.

Vashaw was overwhelmed by the generosity of her students, and immediately brought to tears.

“It is very hard for me to accept help, and I have no idea what to say to you,” said Vashaw.

Vashaw told WMUR that she tries to teach students to do something bigger than themselves, and that this act of kindness is proof they are listening.

“I feel like this has been a beautiful experience as an educator,” Vashaw told ABC News. “You work so hard to try and help cultivate not only academically astute young people but kids who care. I am just so impressed and so proud of these kids for being the embodiment of that.”

The senior class said there will be more fundraisers to come for their beloved principal.

Probably saved lives as well.

This bro is on point, man.

Punctuation is important, people.


Cool beans.

Whoa. The Star-Nosed Mole looks like he had a sneeze backfire or something. Seriously though, look at that nose, man. It uses those 22-appendages to feel around for stuff. Oh, and the Star-Nosed Mole is water repellent, which comes in handy when you live underground and it rains. And get this – these little dudes are also able to smell underwater. They do this by exhaling air bubbles onto objects or scent trails and then inhaling the bubbles to carry scents back through the nose. That’s a cool trick right there. And get a load of those claws, man. Yikes. Nature, doin’ it up big per usual. Anywho, Star-Nosed Mole.


I have no idea if the story I’m about to tell you is true or not. It was told to me years ago, and I have zero clue regarding names or other pertinent details. Perhaps somebody will recognize the story and help me clarify. Hell, it could be an urban legend for all I know. That said, it’s simply too good not to share. Believe it or not, it’s the story of a little boy’s thumb . . .

Not Joe’s thumb.

As the story goes, back in the late 60’s a little 8-year old boy in Bainbridge named Joe had an ugly accident and lost his thumb. It may have had something to do with sharpening lawnmower blades, though I can’t be sure. In any event, he was rushed to the local physician, a gentlemen named Doc Cutright (this I know is true – we had an elderly doctor in our town with the awesomely appropriate name of Cutright).  Long story short, Joe’s thumb couldn’t be reattached and somehow ended up in a jar of formaldehyde in the good doctor’s office. I guess he kept that sort of stuff, and I know not why. However, it’s important to note that young Joe nor his parents had any idea the thumb had been preserved for posterity.

Anyway, a couple of years later Joe moved away to parts unknown but his thumb remained, forgotten by the thumbless kid and the mists of time.

Well, not quite.

Years after, Dr. Cutright passed away and an auction was held to sell of various pieces of furniture, glassware, physician equipment . . . and apparently various body parts in jars. On a whim, or perhaps because he had a weird sense of humor or was maybe just a sick mofo, a former classmate of Joe’s named Tim bought his thumb. I believe the asking price was $5.00 but was negotiated down to $3.00. How do you put a value on a human body part anyway? But that’s neither here nor there. In the end the thumb was put on a shelf in Tim’s basement bar as a curiosity piece. If you didn’t know, disconnected human thumbs are great conversation starters.

While that’s interesting enough in itself, our story doesn’t end there. In fact, this is where our story begins . . .

Decades later, Joe returned to our small town, if only briefly. We have a yearly festival that a lot of people come back for, and this is why Joe was in town. Keep in mind this was 30-years after the 8-year old Joe had become separated from his thumb. As he was walking down the sidewalk with his wife, he heard his name being called . . .

“Joe! Hey Joe!”

It was Tim, across the street.

Joe: “Hey! Timmy! What’s up?”

Tim: “Dude! I have your thumb!”

Joe, nothing registering: “Uh, wh-u-u-u-t?”


Well, there’s something you don’t hear everyday.

It was then that Joe walked across the street and heard the story of how Tim had, in fact, come into possession of Joe’s long lost thumb. This was, as you might imagine, quite the surprise since Joe had no idea it was still in existence and intact.

As the story goes, Joe then walked over to Tim’s house to be reunited with his 35-year old, but actually 8-year old, thumb. Incidentally, you can say that last sentence the other way around and it will still make sense.

So Joe arrives at the house and is handed the jar with his thumb in it. Think about this, if you will, for just a second. Here is Joe, looking at his little thumb that was last in action way back in 1968. It was his thumb from when he was 8-years old. How surreal must this have been?

I can’t begin to fathom how that must have felt.

So there you have it. The Legend of Joe’s Thumb. Can I verify the details? I cannot. Did this actually happen in Bainbridge, Ohio? No idea.

But is it one helluva story?

Oh, yeah.

Note: Just a heads-up here. While looking for a photo to accompany this story, I typed “amputated thumb” into Google Images and hit the search button. Don’t ever do that.

So they had this little kerfuffle in Vegas yesterday, and it ends with some bro getting the living hell tased out of him. Anyway, I see these things on the YouTube all the time and it always strikes me how the rules of fighting have basically disappeared since I was a youngblood. Here are my thoughts, with the video to follow:

1. Sucker punches were rare back in the day. Nowadays it’s commonplace. Cowardly, man. Fight a guy face-to-face.

2. Nobody ever kicked a guy when he was down, especially in the head. Just an assclown move. If a guy was incapacitated, you walked away. You won.

3. Nobody ever jumped in to help. If it was one on one, everyone stepped back and let the two guys involved settle it.

Seems to me that fighting etiquette has gone down the toilet. Anyway, here’s the video that got me thinking about this whole national epidemic. By the way, that tased dude goes down like a bag of hammers, man.

Gotta be a broken hip at least, don’tcha think?

So I took the first photo myself the other night, and it took every ounce of self-control I had to not go ever there and let the air out of this assclown’s tires. I mean really? You’re afraid of dents? It’s a Dodge Dakota, dumbass. As for the second photo, well, there’s a special place in hell reserved for people who do this. That’s just spitting in the face of all that is holy.

Whew. I feel better already.

FullSizeRender (1)


Man, look at the snout on the Elephant Shrew. Dude had a beak like you read about. Anyway, get this – Elephant Shrews are not even shrews and in fact are more closely related to elephants. They also make a series of cleared pathways through the undergrowth and spend their day patrolling them for insect life. If disturbed, the pathway provides an obstacle-free escape route. Elephant shrews be smart. They also are monogamous and live in pairs, but the partners do not care much for each other and their sole purpose of even associating with the opposite sex is for reproduction. Sounds like some couples I know. Anywho, Elephant Shrew.



The idea here is to type in a state’s name and see what pops up with autocomplete. Washington has to be terribly disappointed since a newspaper 3000-miles away comes up. Oh, and Ohio is no surprise, eh?


The Unicode Consortium is an actual organization that is in charge of those little emojis folks use when texting and whatnot. Seriously, it’s a consortium. It has announced that there’ll be 38, count ’em, 38 new emojis unleashed on the public next year.

Here are a few of them, along with my snarkily witty observations . . .

Face with Cowboy Hat

Well, of course we have to have a face with a cowboy hat. We can use it when texting words like “howdy” or “yeehaw.”  Makes sense to me.

Clown Face

Damn it! That’s all I need, more clowns. I’m betting it’s terrifying. I hate clowns and they hate me.

Nauseated Face

Well, dur. Of course we need a nauseated face. I shall us this one without prejudice or regard for human life. You know, because I’m nauseated by people a lot.

Rolling on the Floor Laughing

Seriously? We’re that lazy? We can’t type ROFL? Good grief.

Drooling Face

G-r-e-a-t. Just what the perverts need. A girl posts a photo of herself and boom, Drooling Face appears. Beware the Drooling Face, ladies.

Lying Face

What? What’s the lying face going to look like? Wait. This?

Yep. That’s gotta be it.

“Call me” Hand

Ah, the “Call me” hand. Of course. I see a need for the “Call me” hand. Everyone needs a “Call me” hand emoji. On a related note, I will never use the “Call me” hand.


Why would anyone ever use a selfie emoji? Seriously? I can’t think of any context in which it would be used. Anybody? Bueller? Bueller?

Raised Back of Hand

Also known as the Chris Brown, Ike Turner or Ray Rice emoji. Seriously, a raised back of the hand? What’s next, a black eye emoji?

Pregnant Woman

Really ladies? This is how you’re going to let us know? Good God a’mighty.

Face Palm

I actually sort of like the Face Palm. Like when some idiot really does something dumb you whip out the face palm emoji. I can see myself face palming like a boss.


Finally, the long awaited “I don’t give a shit” emoji. And it’s about time, amirite?

Man Dancing

I suppose this can be used to replace all the happy faces? OK.


Huh? Prince? Like “Little Red Corvette” Prince? Or just a regular prince? And under what circumstances would you use a prince emoji? I’m going to go lay down.

Mother Christmas

Oh, Gawd. Really? Is this a women’s rights thing or something? Gotta have a female Santa Claus? This is an example of political emoji correctness run amok if I ever saw one.

Wilted Flower

Ain’t gonna lie. I’ll use the wilted flower emoji. You ask your girlfriend out, she responds that she has other plans, boom, wilted flower comin’ right back at her. No doubt about it. On a related note, a deflating balloon would work too.

Black Heart

Oh, how I’ll use the black heart. I practically invented the black heart. I accuse people of having a black heart almost daily. Black hearts abound in this dark world, and the black heart emoji has arrived to let them know about it.

The last few new emojis are all food, and why most of these foods were chosen is a mystery to me. Here they are:

Croissant  – Seriously? A croissant? Where are we, France? Gimme a donut, baby.
Avocado – I swear to God, the Unicode Consortium folks must be batshit crazy. Avocados?
Cucumber – Boy, this one could go sideways in a hurry. No comment.
Bacon – Yessir! No we’ll talkin! I shall use the bacon emoji liberally and whenever I want to express happiness. Bacon!

Seriously, other than the magnificent bacon the other three foods are noteworthy only for their high level of boringness.

Without further ado, I heretofore present my suggestions for new emojis. Unicode Consortium, read and learn:


‘Nuff said.

The Finger

Yes, that finger. It would undoubtedly be the #1 most-used emoji in existence. You don’t think I’m right, you know I am.




Not my pants.

Note: That title is a little melodramatic. This story isn’t that crazy, at least by my standards. In reality I just wanted to use the word “awry” in a title. “Awry” is a cool word.

So I made a run up to Macy’s yesterday to do some shopping. I’m probably the quickest shopper you’ve ever known, folks, and I take great pride in it. I arrived at 10:11 and was back in the car at 10:55. And yes, I actually time myself.

My 44-minute excursion included trying on 5-pairs of pants, 3-shirts, a coat, a hat, and frightening a little middle-eastern sales clerk who was negligent in assisting me. But more on him shortly.

I usually walk in, go straight to what I’m looking for, try it on, buy it, and I’m gone. What can I say? I’m decisive when I know what I want. Oh, every once in awhile I’ll feign interest in something if an attractive lady is working that department. I once looked at a collection Hermes Man Purses that I had no intention of buying for 15-minutes because the female clerk was cute, but that’s neither here nor there.

Anywho, I could have been out of there in less time yesterday had I not run into a bit of a problem. You see, when I shop I need a little help. As I’ve mentioned before on this site, I’m color blind. That’s why I usually stick to black pants, because I can wear about any color shirt with them. On a related note, I’ll wear any color shirt – pink doesn’t bother me in the least. I hate people who are judgmental about colors, even though I can’t see them. But I digress.

Anyway, when I first arrived at the men’s department there was nobody around to help, but I thought what the hell, the store just opened, no big deal. After a few minutes though, I noticed a couple gentlemen at the checkout counter glancing over at me as if considering helping me but discarding the thought, even after I’d caught their eye a couple of times.

Eh, no matter. How could I possibly screw up black, anyway?

Turns out it’s possible.

I’m not one of those people who try on one pair of a certain brand of pants and then assume they’ll all fit, because sometimes they don’t. Because I know this I try on every pair to be sure. So, after trying on all 5-pair I gather them up and head to checkout, where the two male clerks were still there, talking about the physical attributes of the ass of Neil Patrick Harris. Seriously.

After completely ignoring me for 30-seconds (remember, the store was practically empty), one of the clerks, the aforementioned little middle eastern gentleman, noticed me and walked over. His name tag said his name was Hadji.

So Hadji starts ringing me up, and just before I swipe my credit card I ask, just in case . . .

Me: “Hey, I need to check. These pants are black, aren’t they?”

Hadji just stared at me.

Me: “I’m color blind. But they are black, right?”

At this point he was still staring and I almost waved my hand in front of his face to snap him out of it, but I fought off the urge. Then he finally spoke:

“No, sir, they’re navy blue.”

Well, hell. I don’t know if it was the smug attitude of Hadji and his buddy, the fact that they hadn’t come over in the first place to help, or that I’d spent 20-minutes trying on the wrong color pants, but I snapped.


I swiftly grabbed all 5-pairs of pants out of Hadji’s hands and stormed off to do the whole process again, but only after letting both clerks know exactly what I thought of their job performances, in no uncertain or gentlemanly terms.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, Hadji then proceeded to scurry behind me and kindly (although somewhat skittishly) take the navy blue pants and help me switch them all out for black ones, so he did redeem himself somewhat. In addition, he may or may not have wet his pants. Bottom line, I got what I wanted.

But damn it, I could’ve been out of there by 10:30.