Quite a week around here and it’s barely Tuesday. Two names from the past appear (Rollo Nickels and Miami Harold) in the comments section, along with some impassioned exchanges (apparently from Great Britain) over that ancient post, “Dem Bones Dem Bones Dem Bones.”
And then there’s this in the email:
How is business? I hope by God’s grace business is moving on smoothly.My name is Mr.Walcot from the united state of America The main purpose of mailing you is that,I am in need of some Paper Toilet,when a business friend of mine asked me to contact you for assistant.I would like to order the Paper Toilet,I would like this order to be shipped international to my new store in SOUTH AFRICA .So if yes your company can assist me place this orders then kindly mail me back with the prices and types of the above mentioned item,So that I can quickly make payment for the orders and also don’t forget to mail me your method of payment.Thank you very much and hope to hear from you again.
I’d enjoy following up on this, negotiating the price of the paper toilet he requests, but life’s too short and the beer’s getting warm. (How does this work? Do you wipe yourself afterwards with porcelain?) I would also congratulate Mr. Walcot on his excellent command of English: clearly he’s a product of our public school system, prepared to compete in 21st century global markets.
Reminds me of an encounter I had on Thanksgiving. Guido sends me off for 40 pounds of bagged ice for the coolers. The idea is to move the wine and beer out of the refrigerator to make room for the food, then use the coolers for a bar during dinner. Publix is closed, so I motor over to the local Circle K, staffed by heathen illegal immigrant non-believers who work on holidays. (Jews, probably Don’t let the turbans or Spanish accents fool you. Devious swarthy bastards control the money, the media, AND the convenience stores. I hear that on the radio.)
I tell the counter person I want to pay for 40 pounds of ice. Her eyes widen. “40 pounds?” she asks, despairingly. Shakes her head. “I don’t have that. I guess you could look, but….” And she spreads her hands apart to visualize what a container that size would be.
I use small words to assure her I realize ice comes in 10-pound increments (I do not use the word “increment”), and that all I want is 4 bags. “Four tens,” I say. “40 pounds, right?”
“Ah,” she says, relieved. “Oh, yes. Okay. You fool me when you say ’40 pounds.’”
I pay with a $20 bill and VERY carefully check the change.
Tomorrow I think I’ll go back and ask is she has paper toilets. If so, I’ll hook her up with Mr. Walcot. No broker’s fee, either. I’m just a nice guy.