There Is No If, Just And

So. This is it, then. Summer's over. Yes, I said summer's over; you can take your damn autumnal equinox and shove it straight up your ass. It's the first of September, the air's getting crisper, and those of you in school have gone back or are so close to going back that it's colouring the final days of your vacation. Yep, sure feels like the beginning of fall to me. Fading fast are the wanton pleasures of a cruel summer; they're soon to be replaced by the cozy whimsical melancholy of autumn. How do I feel about this?

He he he, you'll never know.

I think my hearing's going. Some dude came in to buy some Pepsi the other day, and while he was rummaging around in his pocket (or playing with himself; both were probably true) he told me, "I have the keys to my car." Confused, I stared at him and asked if he was actually willing to trade his car for a can of pop. In reply he whipped out his big, shiny and glistening... debit card and made clear his statement from before. "Car?! No, I said I have to pay with my card!" Oops. Much blushing ensues. The same sort of thing happened today, sans the homoerotic imagery. Whilst listening to the radio this afternoon the newsreader breathlessly announced that there was the proposed banning of pickles in Eastern Canada somewhere. Intrigued by this seemingly random piece of news, I strained to listen harder. The newsreader continued by saying that this was because of the recent incident where a man was attacked by two pickles. If I was an animated character, there'd have been a big fat question mark hanging over my head right then. More like three of 'em. Pickles? Is there some kinda sandwich fixin' revolt I've been sleeping on? But my fevered imagination was blasted apart when the newsreader continued and I realized he was talking about pitbulls. Oops the second. And there'll be just one more, and then I'm done. Two years back I was talking with my co-worker as she was getting ready to head out the door. She was gassing about the joy of her grandchildren, so I zoned her out and stared at the parking lot. At that moment, there was a motley crew of about five seniors walking past the front of the store. My co-worker's voice forced its way into my brain right then and I heard her say, "Man, I hate those wrinkled assholes!" Huh? What? Wrinkled assholes? I burst out laughing, much to her bewilderment. Sensing that I wasn't quite on the same page she was, she pointed out the fruit basket containing a bunch of withered fruit. Oops the third. Sigh...