Wherever I go, happiness follows

When you get to my age (46), you kinda have to walk a fine line between being that creepy old guy who thinks he’s funny, when he really isn’t, and giving rein to the stupid-ass sense of humor that you’ve had since you were a kid.

But once in a while I find myself going through a supermarket checkout with items that one doesn’t normally make a special trip to the store just to buy: a bottle of dishwasher rinse aid and a kiwi fruit, or a bag of broccoli crowns and a box of Twinkies, and the devil gets a hold of me.

Tonight, it was two boxes of couscous. That’s it. That’s all I was there to purchase.

And I couldn’t help myself. As I handed them to the teenage male cashier on duty at the Bristol, Vermont Shaw’s supermarket, I cheerfully exclaimed, “We party tonight!”

This got the usual response: he did a double-take, looked at what he was ringing up, and tried to process the disconnect between my statement and my purchase. Then he grinned and said “Right on, man!”

Wherever I go, happiness follows.

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