Trader Poo
So the other day I’m in line at Trader Joes, stocking up on some Joe-Joe’s and some Italian Blood Orange Soda, when it hits me.
“Excuse me,” I said to the cashier. A teenage kid.
“Yes?”
“Maybe Douche Poo attracts hott swarms because it invokes the conquistador myth?”
“What’s that?” he asked, ringing up my Joe-Joe’s.
“The conquering hero/barbarian operting outside of societal norm. Manifest Destiny?”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” he replied, ringing up my chocolate Altoids. I tried again.
“It’s a theory that just occurred to me. Maybe Douche Poo codes itself as warrior/settler rather than simply greased up choad.”
“Yo, is this a question about the Two Buck Chuck? Because we’re all out.”
“No, I’m talking about the Douche Poo.”
“I don’t think we stock any Douche Poo, but I can check with my manager.”
He finished bagging up my supplies. I took the paper bag of my newly replenished cookie supply.
“Never mind.”
I walked out into the hazy Los Angeles smog.
Perhaps the idea hadn’t fully congealed. I would have to go home and contemplate it some more over mullberry mine and vittles.
