I recently was confronted in an Port Credit LCBO by a woman who sported eyes which looked like two pissholes made in the snow by someone with a bladder infection. I was sampling of our fine Pilsner, decked out to the nines in one of my favorite Western shirts: black, with red desert roses across the shoulders, and fine pearlette dome buttons.
Her eyes were not the only giveaways that she was completely deranged. Her dog, for example, was a very petite mutt, yet she carried a poop scoop the size of a Javex jug. It made me wish for the dog to shit in order to satisfy a morbid curiosity welling up inside. To justify the size of the scoop, the mutt would clearly have to pass a turd the size and shape of a pop can. To do this, it would surely dislocate its hips.
She also, very early in our relationship, told me that:
A- "Honey, that shirt is not workin' for you! It's not! You look like some fuckin' Mar-bor-low Man, or somthin'! Take it off and throw (snap fingers) it (snap fingers) out (snap fingers)!!"
B- "Gosh. I really, really like it, though."
A- "Then you got no taste!"
Then she bolted away, sample in tow, only to single out some poor thirty-something suburbanite in line at the cash and say:
A- "Murray!! You fucking cocksucker! You're dead when we get outside! No one fucks with me like that!!"
The man later made an appeal to leave by the rear door, which fell on deaf ears. Obviously only he had taken the threat seriously. It may have been that she pointed at him with a poop scoop that made the rest of us doubt her conviction.
As she left, clutching a can of Maxiumum Ice, she showed me a pen and said:
A- "Par-lee-ment of Canada! This was Paul Martin's pen, and he gave it to me!"
Again, she lacked credibility in my eyes.
More clever than I thought, she went home (I'm only guessing) and changed clothing. Her new fashion choice far-and-away outdid her earlier drabs--a brilliant red dress of polyester, with a plunging neckline which began at her shoulders and ended, mercifully, just prior to her vagina. She had accessorised with a fat red stretchy belt. It wasn't very becoming; but that's coming from a man who himself has been accused of lacking in fashion sense.
Her strategy was to pretend that we were meeting for the first time. To say 'strategy' is giving her the benefit of guile, which could be flattering this specimen. She very well may have been meeting me for the first time, again.
I gave her a sample, and this time, whether it was the result of the red dress I don't know, she was the absolute picture of feminine grace. Save for the dress.
She left again, this time armed with a can of Yankee Jim.
Who would have thunk that a Port Credit Friday night would have so much character?