You are the disheveled clerk at our neighborhood grocery store who looks as though you sleep next to the carrots in the warehouse. On one of our trips, you reached into the pile of crud you had swept to the side of an aisle and picked out a little green plastic soldier to give to my 14-year-old son. Another time, you chased some kids out of the store screaming, “Motherfucker!” You ended up in the middle of the parking lot, where the little motherfuckers were nowhere to be found. On one hand, you scare the hell out of me, but on the other, I feel compelled to thank you for bringing the weirdo. I’m sure our suburban paradise needs you more than we know.
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