there was a big retard Jim at the grocery store I worked at in high school. Also about 6'5". Pudgy face, middle schooler glasses, strong male pattern baldness.
all the managers shat on him cause he was like 35 and still riding his mountain bike to work in an apron, making $11/hr to make customers really uncomfortable with his discretion in placing the eggs and the raw meat
one day he finds out I like cars. All of a sudden I can't escape his small talk about cars. Now this dude, as previously mentioned, did not posses a license, so all of his stories of cars involved him doing mouthbreather impressions of them driving by at approximately 95 dB
He's always asking me about where I think cops are the worst. I've come to realize that he's just regurgitating whatever small talk he's exposed to in the bagging lane/ 40 years of car reconaissance missions, boiled down to red-faced impression of a Trans Am with a glasspack
Eventually he gets down to brass tacks and asks me "So what's your favorite street to speed on?" I tell him Farm St, this real windy road on the way home from work
He gives me the sternest retard face he could muster and goes "Some kid got killed by a speeder on Farm Street a few years ago. That's no good". and never says a word to me again
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Originally Posted by PancakeBrah
I'm going to start off on a tangent.
when I write, lately, I feel as if I begin by stringing together ambient ideas and concepts, then i realize I'm just typing the words coffee, tawdry, and autumn over and over and over, again, then I pass out dru-
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