Friday, January 12, 2007
You Can't Make Up Shit Like This
I was strolling through a local Safeway last night on a mission. I was assigned by The Fetching Mrs. Crime Dog to find a big bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Took me a while, because I was under the mistaken impression that it was a hair care product. Turns out it's in the first-aid aisle. So why are some women referred to as "peroxide blondes?" It just doesn't make sense. I know my Mama and Grandma never used peroxide to fix any of cuts on me. It was merthiolate or maybe mercurochrome at our house. Remember that stuff? You looked worse after the first aid than before. But I digress.
So I was walking along trying to find this stuff when I heard the familiar refrains of a 311 song coming out of the overhead muzak speakers. It just so happens that The Fetching Bo and Joe E are huge fans of 311, so I texted her:
311 is on the muzak at Safeway. You've gone from cool to cliche.
Before I could even put my phone away, along came her reply:
Whatever.
Not wanting this staggering profundity to be the final word. I texted back again:
Hearing your favorite band on muzak is like #2 on the 'Top 10 Signs You're Getting Old."
HA! That should get her. By then, the 311 song was over, and a new one was underway. As I trumphantly holstered my cell phone like a hotshot gunslinger, I walked underneath a speaker. I could hear the new song very plainly:
I don't know where I'm a-gonna go when the volcano blows...
Dammit Karma! Why do you find me such a tempting target?
|
So I was walking along trying to find this stuff when I heard the familiar refrains of a 311 song coming out of the overhead muzak speakers. It just so happens that The Fetching Bo and Joe E are huge fans of 311, so I texted her:
311 is on the muzak at Safeway. You've gone from cool to cliche.
Before I could even put my phone away, along came her reply:
Whatever.
Not wanting this staggering profundity to be the final word. I texted back again:
Hearing your favorite band on muzak is like #2 on the 'Top 10 Signs You're Getting Old."
HA! That should get her. By then, the 311 song was over, and a new one was underway. As I trumphantly holstered my cell phone like a hotshot gunslinger, I walked underneath a speaker. I could hear the new song very plainly:
I don't know where I'm a-gonna go when the volcano blows...
Dammit Karma! Why do you find me such a tempting target?
