A few years ago I visited a good friend in San Diego (I’ll be a bridesmaid in her wedding next summer, what what!) and we stopped at a beach shop that sold, to no surprise, bathing suits, towels, etc. The figure running the place at the time was a 15-year-old freckle face kid. My friend and I had stopped in so I could use the shop’s dressing room to change into my bathing suit. (I forget why I wasn’t wearing it in the first place. Fail.) When I asked the 15-year-old freckle face kid if changing was OK, he muttered, “Yeah, no problem,” as if I were a turd.
A mere 10 seconds later I was wildly accused of shoplifting. Or more accurately, “jacking some shit.”
Here’s the exchange that followed my exit of the dressing room.
“Um I know you just jacked some shit.” – Punkass Mutant
“Excuse me?” - Me
“Dude, just empty your bag and hand over whatever you just jacked.” – Punkass Mutant
“Jacked?” - Me
(Prepubescent sigh of the century) “Stole! Fuckin’ jacked! I’ll like, call the police.” – Punkass Mutant
“Um, I asked you if I could change into my bathing suit. And you said, “No problem.” - Me
“Whatever. I still think you were trying to jack some shit.” – Punkass Mutant
I then emptied my bag to show the little jack-shit, jack-off, jerk-off that I indeed, “jacked” nothing.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
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