Artist's Rendering. And by "artist" I mean "Roguishly Handsome Genius"
Dear Bagel Lady,
I don't know why you have decided that it's a good idea to be my nemesis. Maybe it's because you live the sheltered life of a shut-in and you have no idea who you are messing with. Maybe you just want to start some shit. Either way, ignorance may be bliss, but it's not a good excuse because trust me I've tried to leave restaurants before with all the silverware at my table and they're all "We're calling the cops." and I'm all "You'll never take me alive!" and then I flourish my cape and try to disappear but that doesn't ever work, so they just sort of blink at me and ask for their silverware back again, a little more forcefully this time, and I sigh and give it to them and I claim I didn't know you can't take the silverware home, and that's where the ignorance lesson comes into play. Because I get arrested anyway(s).
My point is, every morning when I come in at 4:30 you look at me like there is something with tentacles climbing out of my eyes and also like maybe I'm lost and also also like you are suspicious that I am homeless. Well I am NOT homeless, so cast your hobo dispersions elsewhere, Whore of the Bakery, because I'll not stand for have unfair indigence assumptions made about me. That's pretty much an act of war in most civilized countries and if you don't believe me than you can look it up. But you're probably to dumb to have Internet access* so you'll probably just look it up on the bottom of a muffin or something and then squawk because the information you seek doesn't come from baked goods. It comes from the heart. And also from my mouth.
I know you want me to take the day-olds. I get it. They're gross and taste like dwarf feet and you're going to have to count them if you can't pawn them off on any suspicious, would-be hoboes and counting is probably a challenge for you because you go "1,2,3,Apple Turnover, 5, Jelly-filled,18, Strudel Topping, 37..." or something. But I don't want the day-olds. I want one of the shiny bagels on the racks behind you. And when I give you a stern look with one eyebrow raised I expect you to understand that's what I mean. Don't make me say it, Flour Slut.
Just give me a nice fresh bagel and I'll be on my way. Don't sigh and wipe your hands on your apron and then glower at me like I was trying to sell you a half-dead porpoise that had antlers glued to it and I was calling it a "porpalope"** and you are all "I don't have anywhere to keep it" and I'm all "Just keep it in your trunk, it breaths AIR" and I stress "air" like there's some other breathing option, but we both know there isn't and then you're all "How does it swim with antlers?" and I'm all "What do I look like? Jacques Cousteau? Do you want this porpalope or not, lady? I haven't got all day!" And then you're all "It's only 4:30 in the morning you actually do have all day." and then I get huffy and throw the porpalope down too hard and it goes from half-dead to all dead and then I scream "You just killed an endangered species! Deal with THAT!" and then you say "His right antler just came unglued."
The moral of the story is "Sell me a fresh bagel, yo!***"
Hugs Not Drugs,
*I think we can all agree that people without Internet access are so dumb that they can't even do something that clever people can, but I can't think of what that might be, but that doesn't make ME dumb because I have to focus my attentions on bigger problems like world peace or how do I get this Pop-Tart© out of the toaster without burning my hand again.
**"Porpalope" is the best word I've ever invented. It's my gift to you.
*** I added the "yo" so this cautionary tale would have maximum street cred. All good cautionary tales have mad street cred. Just look at Slingblade. Your Witness!