A Horrifying Discovery

At work yesterday I saw on the floor by the entrance what I thought was a black doo-rag. Thinking it something someone might come back for, yet possibly was endowed with gross head sweat, I picked it up by as little of my finger tips as possible and went to place them in the Lost and Found. I recoiled in horror, dropped them to the ground, and probably shrieked a little less than a manly bellow. Immediately I sanitized my fingers, and the rest of my hand to the rist.

They were underpants.

Dirty underpants.

Dirty, feminine, underpants. Inside-out, upside-down, probably size-M basic black women's panties, casually laid out on the floor. And I accidentally touched them.

The most vile part of this experience is the realization that this only points to something even more disgusting happening elsewhere yesterday, very likely right in my store. Best Case Scenario: some teenagers thought it would be funny to leave one of their sisters' dirty drawers in the entranceway to a public location and then laugh about how "punk" they were. That's Best Case.

Worst case?

Something tawdry happened in my very store, possibly in the bathroom, more likely in the corner of reference and computer books next to the kids' department, away from prying eyes. Just a quick finger or two, something to rev the engine without blowing the gasket, so to speak. Something that necessitated the removal of said undergarments and their wadding up into the corner of a pocket, not so well constructed as to hold its contents all the way out of the store.

Don't get me wrong, I'm sure it was pretty hot for them, but I'm in no mood to have to get a herpes test any time soon, and I would appreciate it if anyone and everyone could refrain from boning royally in the confines of my place of business.

I don't think James Deen has starred in a Sexy Bookstore porno yet, but if not, any day now.

On Confidence

Today an old man shuffled in where I work with his wife, also shuffling and shambling and wearing what was apparently an ill-fitted, red Rocawear t-shirt. They walked right up to a table, examined what was on it, and as I walked past the old man loudly farted.

My search for "grandpa shorts" was both unfruitful,
and disturbing. So here's a puppy instead.

Yeah, it's one of those posts.

After the requisite held breath and a mental, "Ew, Gross," my first thought was, "How comfortable that man must be in his existence."

I wish I was that comfortable with my life. I mean, not as flatulent, but comfortable. That guy knows exactly who he is and–through nirvana or a life of crushing hardship and agony–his exact place in the universal machine.

It then occurred to me that perhaps this man were partially deaf and had no idea how loudly he had just methaned all over the local area. Or he was incontinent. These are both distinctly possible. I don't think the latter, as we did not have the close the store and I surmise an adult undergarment would have muffled such a mighty toot.

Alright, he could have been deaf, though.