Strange Things Afoot at the CVS

Lemme tell you something, peeps. Y'all done wanna mess wid ME, aight? I'm da shizzle!

Or, well... something of that nature, anyway.

So I'm at the local all night CVS. (Where else am I, if not there, Starbucks, or Barnes and Noble? Nowhere, that's where. Stop laughing.) And as some of you know, I am only barely speaking to CVS. (See post below RE: Hershey bars.) But it's open 24 hours, it's only 5 minutes away, and they have cool stuff. Plus they have my drugs, my mom's drugs, my dad's drugs... it's a pharmacy and we're the walking wounded. Give us a break, k? We have to learn to play nice, so I'm making an effort.

It's that time of year when kids and parents are crowding into pharmacies, dollar stores, department stores... they're getting school supplies and clothes and whatnot for the return to academia in a few weeks. Hurrah. I love the sales they have, too... writer's paradise. Anyway, I'm trying to walk into my local CVS, but there's a large man dressed like a Shaggy video threw up blocking me. Coming out, on the other side of him, are two little tweeners (I'm guessing they were 12-ish) with bags loaded down with book covers, markers, cute erasers with fur on them, and other vital educational supplies. One of them is speaking into a furry pink phone with sparkles, telling her mum they are "coming right now."

Only they aren't coming right now, because the 20-something gangsta in front of me thinks it's adorable to block them every time they try to go around. They step to the side; he steps to the side. They step to the other side; he steps to the other side. They giggle; he snickers. He's a grown man; they're children.

This. Pisses. Me. Off.

I don't mind people being cute. I mind a 20-something Tupac-knockoff flirting with prepubescent tweeners in MY candyass little town. I mind his ridiculous pants dragging like a pair of cheap-assed swag curtains under his saggy damned butt cheeks in front of me, and the crappy-assed P-Diddy Eau de Hood wafting backward and assaulting my nose. I even mind that his gangsta fashions are four years out of date, and that he's flaunting his look like a badge of badness. This is freaking MARSHFIELD. We steal street signs; we shaving-cream cars. We are not, absolutely NOT the "hood." I don't care if the Fair is in town. Take that crap somewhere else.

I have absolute respect for the genuine culture. Wannabes of all stripes Piss. Me. Off.

So I threw down. Cuz I got mad skillz, yo. Plus there was a guy with a black belt and 6 feet, 3 inches of protective insanity sitting pretty close by, waiting in his Escalade truck. So... you know... I'm good. Got ma peeps.

"Listen, Grand Master Rupert, or whatever the hell your name is," said I, "if you don't stop flirting with those children and move your ass you're going to need that dew rag for a tourniquet."

And the gansta sort of turned around and did that peacock approach where he's gonna bump my chest... then he stopped. Backed off. Spread his arms in a gull-winged sign of surrender and backed away, allowing the girls and myself to pass.

TAKE THAT! Yeah, baby, I'm KRAZY, beeyotch! That's right, Mary! Keep walkin'! Don't be MESSIN' and show some PROPS! Green Harbor is REPREZENTIN!

Then I heard a flurry of chuckles behind me.

Oh. Yeah, well, my mad skillz not withstanding, the two very large State Troopers may have had something to do with it. It's possible. I mean, I was pretty scary. But you never know. They had the impressive uniforms and guns and stuff. If you're intimidated by that sort of thing. Plus the badges. The badges were a nice touch.

Could have been me, though. I mean, I was throwin' some heat. I was bringin' it, yo! So step off... sort of thingy.

Wurd to yer mum. Erm.