Just to start out–I’m 38-years-old and this happened nearly two years ago. Okay? I was 36-years-old at the time this story takes place. And this is a short story. You’re welcome.
So, two years ago. I was hongry. “Hongry” is when you feel hunger in your soul. Ask any fat person or any person who is fat at heart. They’ll fill you in on the lingo.
Anyhoozles, I had been watching my diet and doing my best to eat the right things–but I’d been on the diet for a month (that’s usually my breaking point), and I decided that I wanted Papa John’s pizza. So I got on the app (yeah, I’m a professional fatty), and ordered up my pizza–which was free since I had racked up so many points. Again, you’re dealing with a professional here.
I drove into Sherman, parked my car (which is like exercise since Papa John’s and Starbucks share a parking lot), and went in to get my pizza. I had been at home being lazy, so I was just in jeans and one of my favorite t-shirts and flip-flops. Not to get too personal here, but that’s kind of my standard outfit every day. But that’s beside the point. I walked into Papa John’s and this wee little tween of a girl (probably working her after-school job) smiles and greets me. I tell her my name, she gets my pizza, and comes back to the counter. She tells me my total (which was just the tax–free pizza, remember?), I start doing the whole debit card machine doo-hickey routine, and then she actually looks at me. Her eyes drift down to my t-shirt.
Wee Tween Girl Behind Counter: Oh. My. God. I love your t-shirt.
Me: *looking down* Oh. Thanks.
WTGBC: I absolutely LOVE him. Did you ever get a chance to see him in concert?!?
For your reference, here is the shirt I was wearing:
Me: *looking up shocked* Did I ever see Jimi Hendrix in concert?
WTGBC: *nodding furiously*
Side note: I never wanted to punch a teenage girl in the face so badly before.
Me: Jimi Hendrix? Jimi Hendrix, who died in 1970? Did I ever see him in concert?
WTGBC: *looking confused* Yes?
Me: Give me my damn pizza. *holding out hand*
WTGBC: *sheepishly hands me pizza*
Me: *stomping out of the store* I was born in 1979, you little shit.
Okay. Maybe I overreacted. But this little 12-year-old asked me if I had seen someone in concert that died nearly a decade before I was even born. Look, I know John Schnatter’s* 56-year-old ass dyes his eyebrows and hair (allegedly), so the workers at Papa John’s have trouble determining age by looks alone…but damn. If the lady at the liquor store was still carding me at that point, you’d think the little asshole at Papa John’s could tell that I wasn’t old enough to have raged at Woodstock. Sigh. I just wish she had said that shit before I had added a tip to the bill…
*Founder and (former) CEO of Papa John’s and Just For Men enthusiast (allegedly).
Until next time…