They're dangerous and they're old.
They come out of hiding late in the afternoon and they lurk on the spice aisle. They start out alone but once at the store, they travel in packs.
They are the Sage Ladies and they don't take no for an answer.
They arrive in their Sedan DeVilles or their Contentials. Their hair is a remarkable shade of blue not normally found in nature; it matches the attitude.
And any man — absolutely any man — who is under the age of 50 is fair game.
"Excuse me sonny," one ancient leader of the Sage Tribe asked. "Can you direct me to the spice aisle?"
"Your standing on it," I replied.
"Well aren't you a smart one," she snorted.
I kept waiting for her to hop and broom and zoom out of site; she didn't. So, I began to push my cart east, toward Mecca and the produce aisle.
"Well...?" she snorted again.
"Pardon me?"
"I asked you a question."
"I'm sorry, I guess I didn't hear you," I said. Of course, my thoughts were a little different: "well you snooty ol' broad, if you'd asked the question in the first place I might have answered you."
No, I did not say that out loud. Instead, I smiled and gave her my best, "please forgive me I really stupid and I worship you and all those like you" look.
"Oh," she replied. "Do you know where the sage is?"
"I'm sorry, I don't work here" I said. I pointed to the spot between Salt and Saffron which was empty.
"It looks like they're out," I said.
This answer did not please her.
"Well how come? Why don't you people keep enough on hand for the holidays?" she asked.
"Ma'am I don't work here."
"We'll home come?"
"How come I don't work here?"
"Yes," she said.
"I've never been big on retail," I replied. "My father was in the mafia and he used to knock over grocery stores - it left scars."
She snorted again.
"I was thrown out of dairy product school for pushing organic," I said. "I hate cheese. I'm a Communist. My dog is gay. My cat had puppies. Huge Hefner is leaving me the Playboy fortune so I won't have to work. My wife is a Lesbian-Vegan-Wiccan Agnostic Methodist."
At this point, the Sage Queen is almost overwhelmed. Sensing weakness, I go for the kill.
"I'm a liberal Democratic newspaper reporter and I'm doing an expose on the black market for sage in Oklahoma," I said. "Would you care to comment."
"Is there someone else who can help me?" she said. "I'm going to report you to your manager."
I pointed to a huge black man standing over by the eggs — I knew him an a policeman and a frequent shopper at the store.
"You might ask him," I suggested. "I hear he's very important."
She trundled off and I, slipped the small container of Sage in my shopping cart.
God will probably get me for this, I though. But a thousand years in purgatory would be worth it.
They come out of hiding late in the afternoon and they lurk on the spice aisle. They start out alone but once at the store, they travel in packs.
They are the Sage Ladies and they don't take no for an answer.
They arrive in their Sedan DeVilles or their Contentials. Their hair is a remarkable shade of blue not normally found in nature; it matches the attitude.
And any man — absolutely any man — who is under the age of 50 is fair game.
"Excuse me sonny," one ancient leader of the Sage Tribe asked. "Can you direct me to the spice aisle?"
"Your standing on it," I replied.
"Well aren't you a smart one," she snorted.
I kept waiting for her to hop and broom and zoom out of site; she didn't. So, I began to push my cart east, toward Mecca and the produce aisle.
"Well...?" she snorted again.
"Pardon me?"
"I asked you a question."
"I'm sorry, I guess I didn't hear you," I said. Of course, my thoughts were a little different: "well you snooty ol' broad, if you'd asked the question in the first place I might have answered you."
No, I did not say that out loud. Instead, I smiled and gave her my best, "please forgive me I really stupid and I worship you and all those like you" look.
"Oh," she replied. "Do you know where the sage is?"
"I'm sorry, I don't work here" I said. I pointed to the spot between Salt and Saffron which was empty.
"It looks like they're out," I said.
This answer did not please her.
"Well how come? Why don't you people keep enough on hand for the holidays?" she asked.
"Ma'am I don't work here."
"We'll home come?"
"How come I don't work here?"
"Yes," she said.
"I've never been big on retail," I replied. "My father was in the mafia and he used to knock over grocery stores - it left scars."
She snorted again.
"I was thrown out of dairy product school for pushing organic," I said. "I hate cheese. I'm a Communist. My dog is gay. My cat had puppies. Huge Hefner is leaving me the Playboy fortune so I won't have to work. My wife is a Lesbian-Vegan-Wiccan Agnostic Methodist."
At this point, the Sage Queen is almost overwhelmed. Sensing weakness, I go for the kill.
"I'm a liberal Democratic newspaper reporter and I'm doing an expose on the black market for sage in Oklahoma," I said. "Would you care to comment."
"Is there someone else who can help me?" she said. "I'm going to report you to your manager."
I pointed to a huge black man standing over by the eggs — I knew him an a policeman and a frequent shopper at the store.
"You might ask him," I suggested. "I hear he's very important."
She trundled off and I, slipped the small container of Sage in my shopping cart.
God will probably get me for this, I though. But a thousand years in purgatory would be worth it.
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