This evening, I met a person who may, quite possibly, be one of the stupidest people on the planet. After work, I thought it might be nice to make some jambalaya for dinner, so I trundled off to the deli to buy a green pepper, fresh garlic, sausage, and smoked ham. The individual behind the deli counter was approximately one brain cell above comatose. He was a mouth-breather. If you’re not familiar with what a mouth-breather is, it is a person who walks around with a dumb look in their eyes and their mouths hanging perpetually open. You know the look:
|Yes, I know this is Scott Walker. I stand by it.|
This was the sort of person I was dealing with. I might have mistaken him for the bag of hammers his intelligence was reminiscent of, if it hadn’t been for the apron and the cleaver. Yeah, they let this guy carry sharp things. To begin with, he didn’t ask me if I’d like any assistance, so I stood there for about five minutes. One might imagine that purchasing smoked pork products would be a two-minute affair, tops. This took twenty minutes. Allow me to elaborate. I finally just got impatient waiting for short-bus to ask me what I wanted and said “I’d like two slices of smoked ham, one-half inch thick each, please.” And it was on. The following conversation took place. I wish I were kidding.
Idiot: I don’t know what a half-inch is.
I’m serious. He said this. Well hell, he could know the metric system. I ain’t judging. But who the fuck doesn’t know what a half-inch looks like? I know a lot of women who don’t know what eight inches looks like due to their boyfriends telling them that six was eight, but this was ridiculous. I decide to try to help this individual, who was clearly late for a Mensa meeting. I said “Why don’t you just set the gauge on your meat slicer to a half-inch?”
Idiot: Um……Yeah, I don’t think it really does that. (I am going to choke you. Obviously that is not true. But no matter.)
Me: (holding my fingers apart to approximate one-half inch) It’s about like so.
Idiot: (holding his fingers apart) Like so?
Me: Yes. For example, if you diced up the slice of ham, each piece would form a TINY CUBE OF MEAT. (Okay, that was sarcastic. He missed it.)
Idiot: Oh, is that what you’re doing with it? (No, I was just throwing that out as a ‘for instance.’ Jackass.)
Me: Yes, that’s what I’m doing with it. I’ll be dicing it up.
So short-bus slices off two pieces of meat and holds them up for my inspection, one in each hand. They are approximately the thickness of a slice of Canadian Bacon.
Idiot: Are these okay?
Me: (The hair on the back of my neck is now standing on end. Must…resist…urge…to kill…) To tell you the truth, I was hoping that they would be thicker.
Idiot: So ah…you don’t want these two slices then?
Idiot: I’m going to have to open a new ham.
Me: (Staring. At least five seconds pass.)
Idiot: Is that okay? (Fuck, you don’t need my permission to open a new ham. Go nuts. Hell, open two of ’em.)
Me: (As if he were a four-year old.) Yes, that’s fine.
Approximately ten minutes passes while the new ham is opened and put on the slicer. Short-bus finally presents me with the results, which this time is SIX slabs of ham, a little over an inch thick each.
Idiot: Are these okay?
Me: (I have given up at this point.) Those are perfect. I’ll take two.
Idiot: Anything else?
Me: For the love of God, no.
Idiot, brightly: Have a nice day!