When The Pot Dealer Happens To Have Ecstacy.

Needed to kill some time before my hair appointment so I ducked into The Comet for a quick beer and some reading. Mac & Jacks (which apparently isn't brewed locally?) and a healthy dose of dive bar grime. Waylon Jennings blaring on the jukebox, and the regulars are handing around some kind of sports bracket. The place really is filthy.

Get to the salon with some moments to spare so I read some more. There are two guys in there with the loudest voices you have ever. They are screaming (not speaking, screaming) about how one of them just got a big promotion and their company is now a legitimate company, my hair girl says that her dog was killed on Friday by a careless driver and she wants to move into a condo. The goons bellow about how this is the absolute best time to buy, their place in the gentrifying ghetto is superb and what a deal they got, two bedroom and 2 and a half (yes and a half) baths, went into some finer details of financing, inspections, and online property searches. None of this mind you was spoken in a normal voice. It was screamed as though one were trying to speak over a hair drier. But there was no hair drier. Just the din. And none of it registered the remotest note of kindness or empathy.

My girl finally got the douches out the door so we could have a nice talk about her poor lost dog. The dog hated me and would always bark at me, but I could tell she was shaken up.