On a Thursday.

“Wait, bro, I was sayin’ how demonic that chick was I tried sleepin’ wit last night… She put a paper mache goat head on and tried fuckin’ me wit it! Fo’ real, bro! No lie, no lie!” Forgetting to grab what I came for, this conversation makes waiting in line worth it. “nah, bro, she ain’t into Luche Libre shit, she likes, what’s that broads name? My kids are really into it-Dude, Dora the explorah?” This outlandish idea made me close to being the owner of a fitted LA Kings hat. “Nah, dude, you trippin’? Dora ain’t no skeeze bro! She classy grade A shit, not like that hookah.” I tried my best to listen- I was desperate to find out who this “hookah” was, even when the clerk impatiently demanded credit or debit. The misunderstanding that had occurred was likely due to him being desensitized to the CLEARLY genius conversation I was overhearing. The eyeroll reminded me my instinct was correct. “ Seriously tho bro, come over. I got this jacked up video of a alligator ranch, and this guy is wrestling them, and putting his hands in their moufs and shit-oh and I got some Victorias.” Before I could pretend that I forgot to pick up some chewing tobacco, the duo was already half way out the door. “Nah, nah, man. That fucked up goat chick is coming over tonight .”