| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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December 2005 / January 2006 Contest Results |
Skinny Munchies
By Sally Clark
Fredericksburg, TX
The worst thing
about moving is learning your way around a new grocery store. When I
couldn’t locate one of my favorite snacks, I decided to inquire at the
check out.
Right away a
voice inside my head wheedled, you might want to think this through a
bit more, dear; this could be embarrassing.
I’m 30 years
old, I argued, I can certainly ask for a product in a grocery store.
At the check
out, a slim young woman whose name badge read “Clarista” began checking
out my groceries. Leaning over the package of Ding-Dongs crossing her
scanner I asked, “Do you carry Skinny Munchies?”
“Skinny what?”
she replied.
“Skinny
Munchies,” I repeated, lowering my eyes. “They’re a Weight Watcher
product, uh, little chips that are legal to snack on...”
“Oh, that’s the
cutest thing I’ve ever heard!” Clarista grinned, reaching for the large
microphone stretched across her cash register. “Mr. Sidensticker,” she
called, “do we sell something called Skinny Munchies?”
Mr. Sidensticker,
in the customer service booth one aisle away, answered into his
microphone, “Skinny what?”
“Skinny
Munchies,” she giggled, ignoring my pleas to ‘never mind.’ “She says
they’re for Weight Watchers. Isn’t that cute?”
“Never heard of
‘em,” Mr. Sidensticker boomed back. “Do they work?”
“I don’t know,”
Clarista turned to me. “Do they work?”
“Uh, I guess, I
don’t know, uh, they weren’t for me...” I mumbled, sucking in my stomach
and pitching my Cini-Minis down the conveyer belt.
“Well, who were
they for?” Clarista snapped her gum.
“Oh, my
daughter, uh, she’s over there,” I replied, spotting a thin child of
eight or nine browsing the gum machines. “She just loves those things.
Can’t get enough of them,” I stammered. “Well, we’ll just have to find
them somewhere else.”
Scrawling out
some amount on a check and tossing it across the counter, I pushed my
basket towards the double-sized exit doors.
“Come on, honey,
we gotta go now,” I called over my shoulder.
“Huh,” the girl
replied, “who are you? Wait,” she cried as I grabbed her arm, “you’re
not my mommy!”
It was then I
realized that not knowing your way around a new grocery store isn’t the
worst things about moving. Calling your husband to tell him you’ve been
arrested is.
Fortunately, the
police officer who responded to the call was a bit on the heavily
blessed side, too, and believed everything I blubbered out to her. She
let me go. But not before my Bomb Pops melted down the side of her
patrol car.
I will have to
find a new place to shop.
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