So there I was in the produce section, searching for fruits and vegetables that met my stringent standards, when she spoke.
“Do you think that shirt is funny?”
It took me a moment to realize she was talking to me.
“Say again?” I replied, eyebrows raised.
“Your shirt — you should be arrested for wearing that in public.”
People’s Exhibits A and B of said “offensive” t-shirt:
I turned and looked her up and down. 5′8, 270 (perhaps a bit conservative), dried out platinum blond hair teased into a cotton candy froth in an attempt to conceal her rapidly accelerating alopecia, nails chewed to the quick, tits that looked pancake batter slowly dripping into a hot skillet, and a vociferous rhinoceros ass packed into capri stretch pants which also accentuated her hideous camel toe.
I know she di’INT.
“You think it’s funny to degrade our president like that? People like you are why there was 9/11.”
“Last time I checked it was still somewhat a free country, ma’am…which is why I didn’t call you out on that fugly garb you are wearing,” I replied, trying desperately to keep my eyes from roaming back to the sagging labial folds outlined in black synthetic stretch fabric.
She glared at me, her pea sized brain feverishly trying to formulate a comeback, but in the end, the best she could summon up was “faggot,” as she turned and began shambling off.
“Stupid bitch,” I muttered.
“What did you say?” She whirled around so quick, I took a step back.
I sized her up, did the math, and liked my odds. She may have had hearing to rival Lassie, but I could easily outrun her.
“You said ‘faggot’ so I said ’stupid bitch’ — I thought it was the name game.”
Her tiny, over made-up eyes narrowed and her thin lips curled into a sneer. “Fuck. You.”
“Not for all the oil in Iraq,” I smiled and scurried off before I got my clock cleaned by the hash slinging truckstop T-rex in blue eyeshadow.