Bread Freak He meandered in and, just like every time before, was greeted with muffled sighs of quiet despair. He was grinning like an idiot hepped up on pills, which is fitting because that's pretty much exactly was he is. I tried desperately to avoid seeing his teeth which have a striking resemblance to partially chewed chicklets, and failed miserably. A little part of me died right then let me tell you. It was enough to almost not notice that he was toting a medium sized trash bag full of some mysterious contents. Contents which I had no desire what so ever to know about. This is normally the part where I begin to artfully recreate (replete with comedic flourishes) the brief conversation which will act as a bridge from the first installment of this story to the next. Fortunately for you there is no possible way that this force of twisted nature can be recreated in print. Seriously, you don't ever want to know what I'm talking about. I will let you in on the part of his ramblings that were comedy gold though. Holding up the garbage bag to prove his honesty he said, "Any of you guys want some artisan bread? My restaurant (the restaurant he does God knows what for. Not own. No way -ed.) just throws it out so, you know." My first thought was 'where'd he learn the word artisan', but I soon banished that from my head in order to keep from being silent too long and thus giving him the false impression that I did. "Uh - No thanks, I'm on the gluten wagon." |