funktuation. He went on to point out that he himself had recently left a funktuation mark in his underwear. Much laughter ensued. (Any resemblance to persons living or dead are completely coincidental. I don’t fart.)
(Pardon the doofy expression. And Miz Poo is looking up at the light, not writhing in pain, despite appearances to the contrary.)
and when I left there, I went to rent movies (The One, A.I., and The Last Castle). Tuesdays, in case you didn’t know, (and I’m sure I’ve only mentioned it 45,000 times) are when the new releases are, uh, released, and so I go rent whatever’s new that we want to see, and since they’re not due back ’til Sunday, we have until then to watch them – and we usually do.
Anyway.
So I was the only one in the store, and when I went to check out, the movie guy started chatting with me, as movie guys do. I thought it was just idle chatter to fill the silence while he was ringing up my sale, but after he gave me my change back, he launched into this very long dissertation on how usually they get the new movies about a week before they’re due on the shelf, and during that week, the employees are able to bring them home and watch them, but this time, the new movies didn’t arrive at the store until yesterday, and they’re not allowed to take them out the night before, because they have to be on the shelves, and it would probably be two weeks before he could watch any of them. The entire time he was talking, he was staring very intently at me, giving me the puppydog eyes.
I think he was flirting with me, but y’know what? I don’t know, because my flirt-o-meter is very badly out of practice. This is where y’all come in. Vote on it!
Not that it’s important or anything, but a gal likes to know when she’s being flirted with by a kid in his mid-twenties, with a beard and mustache and a plastic earring. For the ego boost, you understand.
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