“Get up man, come on,” begged the clerk from behind a tangle of faux-ironic chin fuzz. His eyes darted from side to side, presumably scanning for frightened or bewildered customers. I took a slight note of the bloodshot eyes, the grizzled demeanor, the thick-rimmed “punch me in my hipster face” glasses. I soaked it all in as I bent down with soiled pants at my chapped and cut ankles. His voice cracked in his various attempts at tact and reason. Logic would not stop me from completing my task. I laughed in his face, but only on the inside so as not to give the appearance of insanity. Then again, with my cheeks spread wide open, and my anus puckering at the sight of Glenn Beck’s latest book, it was egregious and frankly overwhelming to appear mentally stable.
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