You know, people laugh at convenience store clerks. Thanks a bunch, Kevin Smith.

So I’m standing behind my counter last Sunday, two hours to go on my shift, and this guy walks up, bold as you like, stark naked from the waist down. At least that’s how it looks when he rolls up. Turns out his XXL t-shirt is hiding the tiniest of tiny pairs of off-white briefs.

I tell him to get the hell out. I mean, we don’t have much of a dress code but, god damn, you gotta not be half naked, you know? He yanks up his t-shirt and shows me the goods, like I should back down because, my god, he’s covering his shame with three square inches of brushed cotton. There’s not a whole lot left to the imagination, believe me.

So he’s standing there with his t-shirt round his chest, rolls of fat spilling over his tight white undies, yelling, mouthing off while my paying customers are trying to buy their cigarettes and milk. All the time, I’m thinking, damn, I only had two hours to go.

And that’s when he pulls it out.