This afternoon I executed one of the most important functions under my authority at the brewery--I went to get the birthday bird at Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Yes, you heard it right. Each employee that celebrates a birthday at my place of work is treated to 40 pieces (two buckets) of juicy KFC. They are expected to share with the rest of the staff.
While on my errand of goodwill, I overheard the fella at the till next to me order two of the day's specials: one for him; one for his noisy rugrat. The total came to $5.11, and he stood there clutching a fiver.
A- (long sigh)"Only one then, please. I don't have any change."
C- (long, sad look at his pathetic father who doesn't have 11 cents)
B- "You just need 11 cents? Here, I've got change."
I produced 26 cents, which was the closest I could come for convenience. I passed it to the cashier. The forlorn expression on little C perked right up.
A- "Many thanks!"
B- "No problem. I'd hate to see someone go hungry over 11 cents."
A- "Thank you."
I turned away so that he and his child could have their moment of celebration together, and that's when I overheard him exercising the pride his newfound wealth had brought him.
A- (to the cashier) "Keep the change!"
I turned to look at him.
That was my fucking change. A man who didn't have a dime and a penny to rub together a moment ago is now flashing around my change and bestowing tips on the help. AT A FUCKING KFC! Who tips at a fast food joint anyway?
You can't take it with you, I suppose.
If I had have wrapped my boney little fingers around his throat like Devil B was telling me to do, His Majesty would have discovered that you can't take KFC Twisters with you, either.