bloodcravings

So a couple of days ago at work, the other assistant manager, Chad (who's a six-foot-four drummer for a death metal band, covered in tattoos and with hair down to his hips, and who's not nearly as scary as he looks), was playing with the kid's candy in the aisle. He found the Spongebob gummies and danced up to the counter with a handful of them. "Jena," he says, "Do you know who lives in a pineapple under the sea?"

"Your mom?" I ask, all wide-eyed innocence. Chad immediately throws the gummies at me, makes this terrible face like I've actually offended him, and snaps, "NO," loudly enough that a bunch of customers look at us. Then he stalks off to the candy aisle, muttering to himself.

So anyway. Every time someone has asked a question for the last few days, the answer has been "Chad's mom". We were drinking beer and watching "Ring Around the Rosie" last night (don't see it, it's horrid) and one of the characters turns to the other and asks what the object is that he's holding. Being mildly intoxicated, I scream "Chad's mom!" at the screen, and both characters burst out laughing on cue. Oh, yeah, and my roommate shoots beer out of his nose and all over the coffee table.

I'm not sure why I wanted to share that with you, but it's been amusing the hell out of me all day.