Just show them the lobsters…then back the f*ck away.

The Deli lady.

Three hundred pounds of two-tooth, white trash, cheese-dispensing terror.

Freaks. Me. Out. 

What’s worse than having to order my Kayem frankfurters from Helga here, is that when I approach the deli…

. . . she says “Hi” to my kids…

. . . using their real names.

I don’t like this.

I don’t like the fact that this woman sees several hundred people EVERY day for the course of a week…

. . . and remembers the names of MY two kids, who come with us to the grocery store ONCE A MONTH.

Actual Bean Curd.

Kids: “Hi deli lady!”

Helga: “Hi Cam!  Hi Payton!”

Great.  I can smell her breath from here.

Interestingly, it smells like the previous deli manager.

Hey . . . where IS that guy?

Anyway . . .

Me: “Ugh.  I’d like two pounds of . . . ”

Helga: “Would you like a piece of cheese?  Would you like to see the lobsters?”

Kids: “Yaaaay!!”

I hate her.

Me: “Seriously.  Lady.  Put the f*cking cheese down and get me two pounds of . . . ”

Helga (holding up lobster): “This here is what he uses to swim with, and this is . . . ”

(I club Helga on the side of the head with a pork roast)

Seriously, lady . . .

Be a stranger.

CONTINUE to be a stranger.

This way, my children will feel fine in screaming for help and calling the police when you attempt to abduct them and turn them into bologna or, God forbid, luncheon loaf.

mmmm . . . luncheon loaf.

 

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