The other day a woman comes in wearing a cocker spaniel fur coat. I don't know how to describe her as anything but vulgar and vile, even by the looks of her. Her lipstick was bright red. The reason I noticed is because her lips were obviously over-inflated with fat that could have been found anywhere on her person. You see, her body resembled Ursula's on The Little Mermaid. She had a thick New England accent. And I bet she likes Dave Matthews Band because she thinks they are hip. Anyways, she is looking at the chocolates and one catches her attention. Literally the third thing she says to me is, "That looks like an uncircumcised penis." If you know me, then you know that it takes a lot to leave me speechless. However, this woman left me flabbergasted. I say, "I would say that it looks more like a frog's eyeball or the MTV's Moon Man helmet... But ok... umm... Freud would have a lot to say about you... Where do we go from here?" Without hesitation this disgusting little woman demands, "So do you have free samples?" I murmur, "Seems like you get plenty, or not enough really." I gather myself and reply, "We don't give out samples of the chocolates, but if there is a flavor of ice cream that you wanted to try, you are more than welcome."

This woman has inspired me to create the Classy Bitch of the Week Award. What is the prize you ask? A junk punch. Which I am almost positive that this woman would either pay for, or extremely enjoy.

Here are some little anecdotes that I want to say:

Why do black women keep their cash in their bra? Yes, this is more common than one would think. One woman actually asked me to turn my head because the bills had fallen further into her cleavage than she thought. I have been handed sweaty dollar bills at two of my jobs now. I didn't think this type of thing really happened. Apparently, it's a black thing. However, there was one white woman that used her bra straps to carry the cookies I had just wrapped up for her. You know, because she didn't want to waste a paper bag. On behalf of the people who will be eating those cookies: kill a tree. Through our conversation prior to her cookie molestation I learned that this woman had at least a graduate degree in Chemistry. And for the record, her bra was red so you know she was getting some later that night. I want to junk punch the women who make me handle their moist crumpled dollar bills. I mean, how am I supposed to focus on work when all I want to do is smell the money they give me.

I was on my way to go see the movie Precious, and I saw a beat up looking Nissan POS covered in bumper stickers. Most were along the lines of impeaching Bush, and not trusting authority. I guess these stickers are meant to convince me to share the ideals these rectangles espouse. If these stickers really are billboards, and all you get from questioning authority is a dented teal Nissan that smokes, I think I will be a sheep. The only way a bumper sticker would get me to question authority is if it were on the back of an Aston Martin. You don't see that often. Bumper stickers on cars that cost six figures. I hate bumper stickers. Junk punch.

Working in retail, I have become a pretty good eye for spotting a person who doesn't mind spending money. Good sign: Nice glasses. Bad sign: Pony tail on top of the head. Good sign: A natural material purse, like alligator. Bad sign: Coach bag. Good sign: Nice clothing. Bad sign: Raiders apparel.

It's Pat visited the store the other day. She (I am fairly certain) was not wearing a bra, or at least a supportive one, and her breasts combined with her gut to form a lumpy middle section that was troubling to look at. Strutting into the shop, being led by her fully functional fannypack, not being worn ironically, she charges the counter. Her lips looked as though they had been stung by a bee, and she had a slight speech impediment. "Um.. Do you... have... hot, uh, chocolate?" "Not yet, but we are working on it. I keep complaining to the chocolatier," I say. "Well, I... make... the best... hot chocolate. I... combine a ganache... with the milk." I don't care, or want to know. "We just use a milk and melted chocolate, and that seems to work very well. But we don't have the machine that keeps the chocolate at the proper temperature." "I make a ganache with the chocolate and cream and then add it to the milk." "Oh, okay." (Her way would most likely end up with a broken ganache, and that tastes disgusting). This woman wouldn't leave. She kept going on and on about her stupid hot chocolate. Just before she took her leave, she gave me this priceless piece of wisdom: "If... you get hot... chocolate... they will... come in... droves." Argh, leave me alone. I forgot to mention that she came in 4 minutes before closing and rambled on for about 6 minutes. Why is this woman talking to me so much? I didn't even feign interest. All I could think about was how she must have been home schooled. The fannypack was a good clue, but if she went to public schools her speech impediment would have gotten her teased enough to the point where she wouldn't speak often. Not only do I want to junk punch her because she doesn't know what she is talking about, and is annoying, but I also want to junk punch her out of curiosity. She is like Ciara. I want to junk punch her to see if the rumors are true, and to settle any questions in my mind about her gender.

I finally found a new apartment. It took me 3 months of looking in Berkeley and 1 week of looking in San Francisco. Let me tell you about the misadventures I had.

First off, if you aren't a vegan or vegetarian your housing options are limited. I don't understand vegans. Do you really hate being alive so much that you have to deprive yourself of great food?

Also, not wanting to live in a communal really puts a damper on living options too.

Here are three real life scenarios:

1. I made an appointment to see a room that is detached from the house and doesn't have it's own bathroom. One would have to walk up the back deck steps to go inside to use the bathroom or kitchen. I might have been able to get used to that idea because it was in the perfect location. What the ad didn't mention is the studio space that is attached to the room. In this room they teach music lessons, community yoga classes, zumba classes (?), and they have a children's summer camp. There are so many things wrong with living there. Topping it off is the woman's nose piercing. You are a mother of 2 in your 40's. Grow up, take things that are magnetic out of your body, except for maybe your hip. And further more, put a shirt on. You are fat. I don't want to see the bra straps of an ample middle aged woman. Maybe some people are into that, I'm not. And your husband's haircut is atrocious. What? You cut the hair yourself? I would have never guessed. Mainly because I would have guessed you paid a blind homeless person.

2. I found an ad for a room for a reasonable price. I left church early one day in order to meet the person who owns the house and would be my landlord. He referred to himself as a semi-retired physician. I had high hopes. The house looked nice from the outside and was in a decent neighborhood. As soon as the man came toward the door I knew that this wasn't going to work. He is malformed. His left arm and leg are both underdeveloped. Am I the only one who would walk out of a doctor's office if the doctor came walking into the examination room doing his best Igor or Hunchback of Notre Dame impersonation? It isn't like he is going to run after you if you leave. Could you imagine? That seems like a scene from a horror movie. This man is the doctor for the people in The Hills Have Eyes or Wrong Turn.

Just on sight alone I know this housing situation
wasn't going to work. Also, the man was easily in his 70's. He shuffles to the door and opens it and invites me in. The front room smells of cigarette smoke. The couch looks like the man likes to find his furniture underneath overpasses. The batting is coming out of every cushion, and is dark grey instead of white. He tells me that he sees his patients in his living room and that it would be off limits to me. What?! You have patients? For what? Are you sure you didn't mean patience? What type of physician are you really? He then gives me a tour of the house and shows me how "clean" his kitchen and bathroom are. And he tells me that he expects that standard to remain high. There is rust on the kitchen cabinets. I don't even know how that works because they are wooden. And the bathroom. Somebody tried to be handy and tiled their own shower. Too bad you could tell that the handiman only had one working arm. The tile was slanting all over the place, and the grout lines grew thick and thin depending where you look. After the tour he wanted me to sit on the couch and discuss the prospect of me living in the house. I said that I was already late for another appointment to see another room for rent. Blech!

3. I found a room for a bit more than I cared to spend, but the description sounded nice and the person who would have been my roommate sounded like a decent person in our emails. I go to visit. First of all, the house is south of Ashby and not east enough to be nice. Side note: What is up with Marvin the Martian and latino gangsters? The whole purpose of your look is to intimidate and you go with Looney Tunes? Something has been lost in translation. Everybody knows that Wile E. Coyote is a true thug. Back to the apartment. I knew it was going to be really classy by the table that somebody had fabricated out of marble tile samples. Between that and the coating of cigarette butts on the porch, I knew I had found home. But somebody hadn't told me it was basically a coop house that hadn't been cleaned in years. I walk in, the entry way lights wouldn't turn on. There is a bald man that resembles a mental patient smiling, did I imagine the drool?, staring at the television. I laughed and walked out the door without seeing the room.

Junk punches all around! Except for my new roomies!

Vanity license plates. You are the lamest thing I can think of, and I have paraplegic's legs in mind. I was driving on the bay bridge and I saw a red mustang with the plates "RED UFO". I feel like I need to delve in to this matter. Can you properly describe a UFO and still have it be a UFO? I feel like attaching the adjective red throws the last half out of the window. And I can identify that object as a 2001-3 Ford Mustang. And last time I checked, that car can't fly. Another plate, from Nevada, said "COP SON". Who gives a sh*t? Do you really think that your plates will deter a police officer from pulling your drunken frat arse over for speeding? I can picture a police man standing with his radar gun pointed at this SUV that is doing 60 in a 45. Just as he is about to hop in his car and pull them over he reads the vanity plates. Vanity plates can't lie. The officer has no choice but to let one of his coworker's children speed along rather than cause a riff in the department. Here is another common plate: first off, the person driving is a mid-40's woman with platinum bleached blonde hair, behind the wheel of something really classy and speedy (like a Miata). Her plate may introduce herself, or tell you a bit about her personality. "IM CINDY" "FUNGRL". It is like internet whores have turned their screen names into license plates. Out of all the places I have been, Arizona has the most vanity plates on the road. But after spending a summer in Mesa, I understand why some may find the most fun to be had would be getting a vanity plate.

Guest Blog

Today's entry comes from DangeRuss:

I have someone I'd like to give a big ol' punch in the junk:

I want to deliver a junk punch that is hard enough to knock some sense into my wife's cousin's head. She just posted on the FB that she took 3 of her little kids to the chiropractor. I think the oldest girl is 5. Seriously, what 5 year old has back or neck issues that would require treatment!? Let alone the 4ish and 2ish year old. Pa-chow! Take that sound effect of my imaginary junk punch. On top of all of this, I've done a little research into the quality of treatment that chiropractors deliver. They can help with neck and back problems, but there is a substantial amount of cases and research that shows that cracking the spine can cause bulging and ruptured disks, severing of the spinal chord, strokes, and a few cases of death as a direct result of visiting a chiropractor. Why should sending toddlers to a chiro even be a thought, especially with the damage that twisting and popping the spine can cause? I want to punch my cousin-in-law in the junk, and I want to punch any chiro that would treat toddlers, a hard junk punch with a roll of nickels in my hand for extra inertia and extra pain.

I saw two lesbians holding hands with their daughter, walking up to greet an old man. This got me thinking. Do you think that a lesbian couple has asked one of their fathers for a sperm donation? That way the child would share DNA with both mothers. This totally makes sense to me. Obviously the father would be of the opposite partner who is carrying the child. When I asked, you would have thought I had slapped them across the face. Geez.

I finally said it. The shop that we replaced has been gone for 3 months. 3 MONTHS!!! A quarter of a year. I am tired of people coming in and asking if we are under new ownership, or order something from the older store. Not even the floor is the same. Are you really that dense?

A couple comes walking in last night. They act so surprised to find a new store, which I sort of understand. I don't have any personal feelings for an ice cream store so I can't really identify with them. The woman says, "Oh. Well. The older store had an ice cream that I used to order all of the time." )At this point, I am sick to death of people telling what used to be here. I don't care. In my frustration I thought, what would Larry David say?) I replied, "I don't think you did." To which she replies, "Oh yes. All of the time." "Well, they have been gone for three months. How big a fan could you really be?" She says, "Oh, I just loved it." "That seems like a casual love." They didn't buy anything, but they weren't going to anyways.

I have a number of junk punches to hand out.

I went to the Monsters of Folk concert in Oakland. The concert was very fun. While walking a block to the venue a homeless black woman walked past muttering, "You'd think it was a snowstorm, all these white people." For speaking the quote of the week, I am awarding her a junk punch to give to the person of her choosing. She will probably choose the government (they

are responsible for how she is), that b*tch who is encroaching on her territory underneath the overpass (skank needs to step back), or her competitor in collecting aluminum cans (and while he is writhing she will become the can czar).

While at the concert, there was a group of friends who decided that talking loudly would be appropriate. Remember, this is a folk show. Some of those awkward conversations were almost worth not being able to hear the music well. The chubby girl of the group had a crush on one of the more popular males of the group. Before most of their group had gotten there, she had said some sexually inappropriate comments his way, on top of trying to buy him a drink several times (rufies perhaps?). Turns out, she is dating the short chubby boy in the group, but is a friend of the guy she has a crush on. I am talking myself in loops, I'm starting to confuse myself. Anyways, the point is they were jackasses. I realize that they were at a Korn and Limp Bizkit show three years ago, and their tribal tattoos and multi pierced ears (hoops, if you were wondering) fit in to thatshow much better. Why did you pay $40+drinks to come to a folk show, and then talk through most of it? I want to junk punch you.

This man is crazy. CRAZY!! He is crazy to the point where I took his picture and didn't care if he saw me doing it. How did he begin the conversation you ask? Oh, he begins by telling me about a high-speed car crash that killed at least 3 pedestrians. No, it hadn't happened recently, he just wanted to tell me about watching America's Most Wanted recreate the scene... a few years ago. What a loon! Then he tells me that there is too much salt in the ice cream. And then he tells me to switch the chocolate we used to a company that has been started by WIRED magazine. That sounds like a great idea. We will switch from the chocolate that is awarded Best Chocolate every year, to a company founded by techies. What a genius!

I went to a Graduate School Portfolio Day. I saw something that actually made me laugh out loud. I couldn't get a better picture, and the pictures didn't translate well. Anyways, this girl. This girl thought that a great way to introduce herself would be with a tube top that is rouched all the way around, a size too small so it wouldn't slip down. If that tasteless piece of clothing isn't enough, she paired it with a structured harem pant. Think MC Hammer, but the pants had boning so the shape would be fully inflated at all times. Why stop at the pants? You shouldn't. She had on hooker/tranny/bondage boots. The heel was about 5 inches, but I guess you would call them a wedge because there was no negative space underneath the shoe. I can't imagine her thought process. She wakes up in the morning, gains her bearings, and realizes that because she partied a little too hard last at both the Bondage Babes gathering and the Transgender Society's Roast of MC Hammer Gala she now has no time to change before she goes and presents herself to prospective schools. What a reject.

Today I saw a woman in a bra that had to be 10 sizes too small. She turned around and because she was wearing a black and white horizontal striped shirt, I thought her back looked like an Oreo. In other words, I think we need a name for those folds that are caused by the bra being too tight. Might I suggest E. L. Fudge? Is there some term that I am just not aware of?

UPDATE: Double Stuffed. I think that is a winner.

Weekend

Can I junk punch an albino on principle alone? Stay inside, and don't make me see your freak show.

Friday

I can't believe that I even have to address this. Do not reach behind a sneeze guard to grab something. People blow my mind with what they find acceptable. We serve diamant cookies. People will reach over the entire counter, behind the sneeze guard and grab cookies with their hands. Really?! Also, they will grab a handful of small spoons, take one, and put the rest back in the cup full of spoons. I just don't get it. Today, a woman grabbed a metal spoon, used to stir coffee, took it outside, and then brought it back in after she was done eating with it. A man actually reached OVER the sneeze guard and grabbed the specific cookie he wanted. Why do they think this is alright? I am a big advocate of not even touching the glass if you have to point, let alone leaning against the glass. One time I was at Bajio with a friend when a woman in front of us was talking on her phone and bossing the Lation gentleman working. She was standing on her tippy toes so that she was able to point her finger directly over what she wanted. All the while she only gave single word commands as if the worker was a dog. I interjected, "Excuse me, but I don't really want to have whatever is on your hands on my food. And, for your information, he can speak perfect English even though he is brown." Fred started laughing. And from then on, the worker would give me a free soda and talk about his family. He probably had to deal with ladies like that all the time. I junk punch people in my imagination whenever they reach their grubby hands and take something instead of ask for it.

Whenever

Jim Gaffigan has a funny bit where he talks about being white. He says that he can't have a temper because he isn't Latin. People won't say, "Oh it's just that Latin temper flaring up again." They'll say, "He's just a d*ck."

In other words, I feel like my posts are too angry for me to be anything other than a d*ck.

Enough self-awareness already.

I want to junk punch men who wear flair on their jeans, i.e. summer sales guys. Who let Lisa Frank seize control of denim? These are the guys who are just douches, most of the time. When I lived in UT, I tried to be friends with a couple of these people, and I just couldn't do it. Turns out I don't care about how many sales you had over the summer, or the type of car you drive. And why in the hell are you bragging about the brand of jean you are wearing when it looks like you gave your little sister gemstones, sparkles, and rivets, and then let her have at it.

Do you have a run in with a douchy summer sales guy?

Friday

Working at this shop, I am tired of suggestions. I am tired of people putting in their two cents. I don't care. If it were a good idea, we'd have done it, or plan on doing it.

A creature comes walking into the shop today. She is in her 40's, has a swim parka and gaucho pants on. Oh, and did I mention her bright pink bangs? It was like she was trying to be the alternative Rogue. And did I also mention her sweet moustache? This woman could grow a better moustache then most of my guy friends, Josh I am talking about you. Only Danger or Nate could grow a better one. This moustache wasn't stubble, it was groomed. She could be both the villain or the damsel in distress if this were a melodrama. She was probably the third or fourth woman, probably a lesbian, that had some really nice facial hair. I don't get this. Is it a status symbol? Does the lesbian with the best 'stache get to be the club's Grand Puba? Anyways, this woman walks in and says, "Do you know what I think you should do?" What a stupid question. It isn't even a question, she was hoping for me to try and egg out her advice. But all I could do was stare at her upper lip. It was unbelievable. "The place before had the best chocolate cookies in the world." "Oh, we are planning on having chocolate chip cookies," I reply. "But theirs were the best in the world." "I could never imagine hiking the Himalayas just to taste a chocolate chip cookie. How did they measure up?" Even I couldn't believe I had said it. She walked out. Bwahahaha!

Thursday

Let me take you back to the days of TGIF. Can you remember Family Matters? Can you remember Urkel and all of his nerdy hilariousness? And then can you remember when they tried to do a bait and switch, giving Urkel the super-cool alter-ego Stefan? I can. And I remember thinking even then that it was b*llsh*t. Urkel isn't cool, and he never will be, so you need to get over it Jaleel White. I know it was him (he?) who insisted that he had a super-cool character that makes it with Laura, because nobody else gains anything from that plot line. As far as I remember, Stefan signaled the end of a great family sitcom. And for that, Jaleel White deserves a punch in the junk.

Tuesday and Wednesday

I forgot to do one Tuesday, so I will do two from Wednesday. Both are politically incorrect. Be forewarned.

The mailman at work has something weird going on with his face. Thanks to this season of America's Next Top Model, I think I can diagnose his condition as ptosis. And, his eye that is affected is either lazy or glass. In other words, I can't stop staring at this one part of his face whenever he talks to me. The shop has been open for about 3 weeks now, and until yesterday we hadn't checked the mail. Five times, five times the mailman has come in to, at first politely and then more and more rudely, to check the mail. I am usually the only one in the shop. I didn't even know if we had a key. By the time I could go talk to the office to get a key, the office would have been closed. In other words, there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. So the man who looks as if he worships Joan Rivers but is having the work done in installments can continue to throw me icy glares, can I use the plural if one eye is fake. Maybe the finish of that last sentence should read; can continue to throw me icy half-glares. But really, I want to junk punch him.

The second one: An elderly couple came shuffling in yesterday. The woman couldn't walk by herself and needed the support of her husband. To me it seemed as though she had suffered a stroke. Let me announce that stroke has claimed some people I hold close to my heart, both my grandfather and a neighbor woman who (whom?) I love just as much. I would not intentionally make fun of a stroke victim. Back to the story. This couple decides to whisper everything to me, and the woman slurs as well. Since they are standing behind the sneeze guard, I have a really hard time understanding what they are saying. Every time I ask them to repeat themselves, they stare at me blankly and don't repeat themselves. I just start giving them random samples of ice cream until they decide on a flavor. When they announce what they want, I don't understand them. I say, "Excuse me, but I can't quite understand what you wanted." The couple looked angry at me. They seemed to think that I was making fun of her stroked-out situation. But I wasn't! I do want to junk punch them, but I am afraid of a. having to be near private parts that are that old, and b. they might turn to dust.

Monday

Sorry for the late post, but this one is dear to my heart.

I hate Geico advertising. I change the channel every time they have a commercial shown on television. I stop watching whatever it was I was watching because I avoid having any sort of interaction with their horrible ads. This anger all began with those damn cavemen. Nobody likes them, not even their mother. Why would they have a pilot picked up by a network? Yes, ABC picked up a pilot inspired by the Geico caveman, but thankfully did not buy any episodes. And that stupid gecko. Every time I see him (before I change the channel), I hope that something will fall on him, and his eyes will pop out. I think their advertisers had that same thought, so they took the eyes that popped out of the gecko and put them on a stack of money. I realize that all advertisers take clever ideas and run them into the ground. However, Geico reaches new levels of sadism with their regurgitated, stale ideas. Who keeps signing off on these commercials? Why don't they ask for something new? "It is new, the caveman is running around town while Nickelback sings a song, creating a dramatic music video look for the commercial. We've never done that before!" I want to junk punch you. I would even be willing to pay with a tooth.

Sunday

I want to junk punch Robert Pattison. And while he is writhing on the ground, I will rub self-tanning lotion all over his face. Sorry Abby and Jess.

By the way, I want to dedicate one day a week to nominations from other people. Are there any people in your life that need a junk punch? Vent it here.

Saturday

There was a young woman trying to get signatures for a petition in front of the shop Saturday. She was really successful from what I noticed. She wants equal rights for all. Did I mention she was in a wheelchair? My first thought: What a faker! I know she can really walk, but doesn't so she will get more signatures and make people feel like jackasses for using their fully-functioning legs to blow past her. However, as the morning progressed I noticed that her disability wasn't just limited to her legs. Man, am I glad I didn't go out there and accuse her of being manipulative. If that wasn't bad enough, my next thought: That is really funny, her wanting equal rights. If everyone was treated equally, then we wouldn't have to put in wheelchair ramps, or even take disabilities in to account.

In other words, I receive the Junk Punch of the Day. Ouch.

Friday

I went to college at Brigham Young University. They make you sign something called the honor code. It is a statement saying you won't do certain things and contains things like grooming standards. Just an example of how antiquated this code is: beards are not allowed, but moustaches and sideburns are allowed. In other words, the most creepy, pedophilic facial hair is acceptable, but not a goatee. Anyways, while I was there I did a fashion shoot with a couple of friends. In part of the shoot, the model had on a scarf as a top. I posted the pictures on Facebook. About 3 days later, I get an email from BYU's Honor Code Office saying that we need to talk. I am planning on leaving, because I have finished my classes and don't bother to set up an appointment, but returned an email saying that I could communicate over the phone. I had to do play ball because I did not have my diploma in my hand yet, http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,441382,00.html. Facebook also sent me a notificatioin that I had published something inappropriate and they had removed the picture. This narrowed the snitch to someone who was a friend on Facebook, and went to BYU. And, let's be honest, they are probably ugly or overweight female, and didn't like to see a beautiful body they wish they could have. This is the picture:

How scandalous! I am sure that people in the 1930's would be appalled! Back to the story. One of the Honor Code Office Counselors and I had a conversation as I was driving across Nevada. He thanked me for calling, and then asked me about the photos I had recently posted on Facebook. I explained that this was a artistic venture and that the model had been covered up and there was nothing pornographic, a word he used. He told me that if I wanted to challenge this statement, the board met in a month and I would have to write a report, blah, blah, blah. (meanwhile, I wouldn't have my diploma). He told me that the quickest way of dealing with this would be to just remove the photos, and asked me not to go on a witch hunt to find the person. I asked if he would tell me the person's name, but he refused. I told him that the US Constitution gives me the right to face my accuser, and that this institution has actually stripped away a constitutional right. Also, I said that there wasn't any "honor" in turning in a complaint about someone, and then hiding behind anonymity. Well, I unfriended most of my BYU friends, because I didn't especially like them anyways.

So, the Junk Punch of the Day goes to that Counselor, and the person who ratted. And I can now publish this post because I got my diploma in the mail 2 days ago.

Thursday

This is my very first blog posting!

Let's be honest, there are so many people who deserve a junk punch that narrowing the field to one a day is going to be difficult. Yesterday was Thursday, September 24, 2009. There are two main candidates for Junk Punch of the Day:

1) I work in a chocolate/ice cream/pastry store. A woman with an androgynous haircut walks in wearing a Charles Chocolates, based in SF, t-shirt. Clearly s/he will not have an ulterior motive for visiting, or at least will have an unbiased opinion of what we offer in the store. Nope. S/he, whose hair s/he has stolen from Jim Carey a la Dumb and Dumber, decides for some reason that I am interested in her opinion. Before I scoop ice cream, I dry off a scooper from a tub of water. While helping him/her I take a little too long making sure that I don't introduce water into the ice cream. S/he tells me that, "Real ice cream shops have little bins of water where the water runs continuosly." I cut her/him off, "Well, we serve real ice cream, so I would consider this a real ice cream shop." "Well," s/he says, "more serious ice cream shops have those little water bins." "And," s/he continues, "last time I was here the ice cream was too runny, now it looks too hard." "By the time you stop talking and start eating the ice cream, it will probably be the perfect temperature," was my reply. And then in my head, I junk punched her/him.

2) The person driving the hybrid in the fast lane going 55. So on a 3 lane highway there are two semis and a hybrid side-by-side-by-side. Junk punch!

Who is more deserving?