Radioactive Buns
(I know I said I was going to use up old posts that were lying around, but I actually wrote this today. If it helps, I didn't really edit it.)
I'm no rabid environmentalist, but it's enough with the plastic bags already. Sure they're useful, but they seem to multiply like rabbits and I find I'm overrun with them. So I try to reuse them when I can, and refuse them whenever possible. But no matter what I buy at the stores downstairs from my work -- a pack of gum, a birthday card, a single battery -- they always want to stick it in a huge, thick plastic bag. Sometimes, if the item is sensitive enough (such as shampoo) they even want to double-bag it to keep others from knowing about my shameful purchase. It's a phenomenon that continually baffles me.
Anyway, today I go down to the market to get a fresh bun to eat with my beef stew at lunchtime. I pick out my tiny dinner roll and put it in the thin plastic bun bag and go to pay for it. The nice lady rings it up for me and then proceeds to get a giant plastic bag to put my itty-bitty already-bagged bun in. I tell her quickly, "Oh, I don't need a bag." She looks at me warily, as though she doesn't believe I would turn down a free plastic bag. I try to reassure her by smiling and shaking my head. She grudgingly accepts my assertion and hands me my change. As I walk away I think, "It's not plutonium, for Christ's sake, it's a bun. It'll be FINE."
For whatever reason this little joke of mine cracks me right up. I start to giggle as I walk back to the elevators. "Plutonium. Good one. *Giggle*." People stare. I try to remember that this is the financial hub of Toronto after all, with important people in important suits marching off to important meetings that will no doubt determine the fate of me and the rest of my caste. It is unseemly for me to be giggling, and giggling by myself, no less. These are people for whom denim is still untrustworthy unless kept within the strict confines of a charity-sponsored dress-down day. They don't cotton to these kind of shenanigans. They're liable to call security, missy.
I try to maintain my composure. But the more I think about my joke, and the more I try to suppress it, the more it makes me laugh. Just like back in high school during religion class. I picture the cashier in a hazmat suit carrying the bun with Cockknocker-length arms. Also, the word "cockknocker". I decide I am no longer in high school and I finally allow myself an actual laugh. But what actually comes out is not a laugh, but a snort. Which cracks me up even more. Now I just cover my face with my hand and rush to the elevator, trying to conjure images of dead puppies and crack babies to no avail. The end.
So, um, yeah. That was today's timely post. Tomorrow it's back to the old "unedited" posts, I promise!
I'm no rabid environmentalist, but it's enough with the plastic bags already. Sure they're useful, but they seem to multiply like rabbits and I find I'm overrun with them. So I try to reuse them when I can, and refuse them whenever possible. But no matter what I buy at the stores downstairs from my work -- a pack of gum, a birthday card, a single battery -- they always want to stick it in a huge, thick plastic bag. Sometimes, if the item is sensitive enough (such as shampoo) they even want to double-bag it to keep others from knowing about my shameful purchase. It's a phenomenon that continually baffles me.
Anyway, today I go down to the market to get a fresh bun to eat with my beef stew at lunchtime. I pick out my tiny dinner roll and put it in the thin plastic bun bag and go to pay for it. The nice lady rings it up for me and then proceeds to get a giant plastic bag to put my itty-bitty already-bagged bun in. I tell her quickly, "Oh, I don't need a bag." She looks at me warily, as though she doesn't believe I would turn down a free plastic bag. I try to reassure her by smiling and shaking my head. She grudgingly accepts my assertion and hands me my change. As I walk away I think, "It's not plutonium, for Christ's sake, it's a bun. It'll be FINE."
For whatever reason this little joke of mine cracks me right up. I start to giggle as I walk back to the elevators. "Plutonium. Good one. *Giggle*." People stare. I try to remember that this is the financial hub of Toronto after all, with important people in important suits marching off to important meetings that will no doubt determine the fate of me and the rest of my caste. It is unseemly for me to be giggling, and giggling by myself, no less. These are people for whom denim is still untrustworthy unless kept within the strict confines of a charity-sponsored dress-down day. They don't cotton to these kind of shenanigans. They're liable to call security, missy.
I try to maintain my composure. But the more I think about my joke, and the more I try to suppress it, the more it makes me laugh. Just like back in high school during religion class. I picture the cashier in a hazmat suit carrying the bun with Cockknocker-length arms. Also, the word "cockknocker". I decide I am no longer in high school and I finally allow myself an actual laugh. But what actually comes out is not a laugh, but a snort. Which cracks me up even more. Now I just cover my face with my hand and rush to the elevator, trying to conjure images of dead puppies and crack babies to no avail. The end.
So, um, yeah. That was today's timely post. Tomorrow it's back to the old "unedited" posts, I promise!
posted by Alanis at
7:14 PM
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