Broomhilda

(Reposted from my old blog. New blogs coming soon!)

I tried to return my ruined skirt to Target.

You know, the skirt I spilled coffee on when my car slammed into the mountain of fake boobs on the freeway?

Anyway, for some reason - I don't know why - the (extremely hairy) customer service lady didn't buy that the stain was already there when I bought it. And that I was SHOCKED to discover it when I got home.

Given how every piece of clothing I buy at that place ends up getting stained by food, bird poo, motor oil, glue, juice, soda, blood, vomit or overexcited boyfriends with bad aim (don't ask), I think I've figured out how "Target" got its name.

I have a Target just up the street from me, and my favorite cashier up there is this stringy haired woman who looks like she should be lurking under a bridge and scaring billy goats.

I never notice the name on her name tag. I just call her Broomhilda.

And, in a weird way, she kinda reminds me of Whiskerbelle.

This woman can smile at you ear to ear and still make you think like she's sizing you up for a Hefty bag. And wondering how snugly you'll fit in the crawlspace under her workshed.

Best of all, she's covered with warts and has this gigantic, bloated head. And she has watery, droopy eyes. And this super ruddy complexion that makes it look like she got piss-drunk one time and STAYED that way.

She's always really gruff and irritable when she's ringing people up at the express register, and it's a crackup to watch.

I like to imagine her suddenly blurting out, "Hurry it up, will ya, ya little candy asses? Yer cuttin' inta my drinkin' time!"

She's squat and square and has a very rugged build. I bet she's a good bowler.

And handles a mean chainsaw.

I tried to sneak through the express lane last night with about fifty pairs of pantyhose last night. Big mistake.

I'm sorry, but if it's all the same exact product then it's ONE item.

Unless you're in line in front of me with about a million jars of baby food. Then you can go to Hell.

But come on? Fifty pairs of nylons? That's NOTHING.

Scan one and hit the "times fifty" button. A monkey could do it.

But monkeys apparently possess skills that psychopathic drunken lady trolls lack.

Broomhilda was thrown by the fact that some of the stockings were control top, some were sheer to the waist, some had reinforced toes, some were sandalfoot, some were nude, some were tan, some were beige, some were black... like any of that shit makes any difference.

Pantyhose is pantyhose. Just ring 'em up and be done with it.

Broomhilda kicked me out of the express line and made me move to a regular register.

That really hurt my feelings.

I thought she and I had something special.

Love you! See you all soon!