October 17, 2010

Cukes and cocks...

[I know I haven't posted about my NYC visit. I suppose it's still digesting. And for the two of you who actually read my blog, DEAL WITH IT. It will happen soon. In pieces.]

I work at Whole Foods. In fact, I'm working at Whole Foods, right now. Yay for the half-hour lunch hour!

Today there was a change in my schedule. I usually work the prepared foods retail case like it's the dirtiest downtown street corner, but for some reason I was assigned the salad bar. The salad bar. I kind of hate salad. Now don't get me wrong, I love spinach and artichokes and beans and peas and carrots and all that shit, when they've been cooked through and through. Raw is not my thing. I'd be able to give stellar head if eating vegetables didn't keep my gag reflex in check.

Speaking of which, you know that cliche about how cucumbers have an uncanny resemblance to a certain part of the male anatomy? And if you didn't, they look like penises. Dicks. Cocks. Members. (as if there's a club...) I was chopping dozens of cukes just minutes ago. I was grasping one firmly in my left hand, preparing to swing down that heavy ass chopping knife with my right, when déjà vu hit me like a pimp on pay day.

It was this cucumber. It felt, familiar. Perhaps this was the cousin of a cuke I once chopped. Perhaps I had one of those false déjà vu moments when what feels like the past is really just an event that occured miliseconds before. But no. Not at all. And then it hit me, like an even bigger pimp on pay day when a ho ain't got no money.

It was the same shape (slightly curved upward), length (7"), girth (4"), and firmness (marble) as the dick of an ex lover. So, all I could picture was me, holding his good-sized cock, firmly, about to chop of it's throbbing head.

"Why you no chop?" asked Gloria, the salad bar nazi.

Apparently I had been pondering this for a few minutes, just holding it. Holding it. And staring.

"Sorry!" I said.

So I brought down the knife, swifty, with gusto, and off went his head, into the compost bin.

Talk about muscle memory...

xoxo

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