Anyhow. Today's the A Capella CHAMPIONSHIPS, as so many lamers informed me. Dude, hot tip. Don't tell me you're here for a "Championship" when all you're gonna do is make like a barbershop quartet and rip into some sweet sweet harmonizing courtesy of the BACKSTREET BOYS. Holy fuck. Apparently a capella translates into a bunch of wannabe sorority girls and boys in cowl neck sweaters. Seriously. What's up with that? CHAMPIONSHIP. I'd rather toss in my lot with a fuckin' curling match.
Okay. So back to square one: we're standing around, a pack of maroon-shirt kids, and this dude walks in. He's a rather weaselly looking fellow, with a broomstick build and scraggly goatee...actually, it looks kinda like an unfinished lanyard of some sort.
He walks in, and steps up to the counter: "Hi, my name's La La, but you can call me Santy Claus. Where's the biggity-athroom?"
Cue workers: "Scuse me?"
"The biggity-athroom. I wanna get high from marijuana. Do you wanna get high? Get high? POT!"
The biggity-athroom. Christ.
The best part's when he's slouching down all lonesome like in some corner. And my manager goes up and asks him if he's with the singers. He says he's waiting for his friends, and that she (my manager) is harassing him, which she has "no right". So what does boy genius do? He whips out his wallet, puts it next to his ear, mumbles, and proceeds to tell the manager, "You'd better watch out. I just called the cops and told 'em you're sexually harassing me. They're gonna come any minute." Dude, come on. His wallet's clearly a turtle-com in disguise, and whoa baby! Leo's gonna slash you up, sucka! And my manager's all, "Sexual harassment! Did you LOOK at him?! DID YOU SEE?!" Hah.
Biggity-athroom. Dude. Don't make me get all fuctit in yo'shiznit, you diggity dig?