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.