I sneezed. This greasepit of a pocket was starting to stink worse than ever. I mean, come on! I was with all of my buddies, we were all having a great time in the register (and I mean a great time), and all of a sudden, this guy lands me in his gym shorts. I mean, of all people! I have my whole life ahead of me.

Anyway, here I am, rubbing thighs with this obese man, feeling him sweat all over my sheen while he’s stuck to some sort thing with wheels that doesn’t even move! Excuse me if I’m mistaken, but aren’t wheels for moving? The cavemen thought so, anyway.

Suddenly, blinding light seared my pocket, while the man’s pudgy hand nearly suffocated me within its stuffy confines. I found myself hitting hard plastic, imitation of some real stone or other. Then, a softer hand caressed my powdered wig.

Another register? Oh, well. I was with my fellows, again.

“Hey, George!” one called.

“Abe!” Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.