My Straws

Here are my straws. I keep then in a plastic holder for a glass (in picture) that was given to me as a wedding souvenir.  They are kept on a dresser with my fake roses (to keep things classy) next to my flatscreen (high class).  Someday I'll have fake roses in each of my rooms.

I write about straws because in the midst of a long, heated walk today, I stopped in a store for a can of Fanta lemon. I was stoked when I found a really cold one in the back of the fridge, but I didn't see any straws. Like any pampered Westerner, I'm afraid to put my million-dollar mouth on a dirty, third-world can, so I asked the lady at the register where I might find a straw. She pointed to a spot next to the fridge, and then called to another lady-employee standing by the fridge to grab me a straw.

This second lady took her fingers out of her nose and began reaching for the straws. Yes. She was picking her nose. Sensing an imminent disaster I flew to the straws and grabbed one before her snot fingers could ruin straws for me, forever.

Everything turned out fine. I got my straw, drank my soda, and then made love to both these employees. Chimichanga Freud has had better days, but this one was pretty good.