"Pizza's two for $4.99, chief, you want pepperoni on that, boss? Want a peach-flavored blunt wrap to go with that, bro?" Excuse me, I didn't hear you, I was busy having a blessed day. What's with convenience-oriented interpersonal communication these days? It blows balls with stink-lines. The lady at the 7-Eleven with the rose tattoo on her finger is always nice and encourages me to 'have a nice morning' before 'egging me on' to get an extreme egg and sausage breakfast taquito. But there's a fat lady regular who gets 3 of those suckers every morning and the last thing I wanna turn into is a fat lady, so I always pass. But I try to honor the lady-clerk's good intentions by having a good morning- and i promise her that i have plenty of sausage to jam on in my duffle. The lady-clerk has good intentions- she's a bit of a stickler, but she'll bend the rules to do you a favor if you're not new- once this guy in front of me got a 16 oz. coffee and extreme breakfast sandwich for $2.99. Rookie. The advertized deal was a 20oz. coffee and an extreme breakfast sandwich for $2.99. She let the guy slide with a cup that was clearly 4 oz. less than the advertized measurement. Pursuant to 7-Eleven laws of cup algebra, you need to keep track of cups or else there'll be disorder contributing to the widespread demise of the beverage industry. However, this is 7-Eleven and they let you fill up your own traveller without even touching the cup.
Fuck that shit. talk about feeling unfulfilled, next time you go to 7-Eleven take your traveller in, fill it up, and go pay for just the coffee in your vessel. When you stare into the pure black liquid volume that fills your previously-filled space, you'll feel empty for paying for coffee with no cup. Cups are like souvenirs from an amusement park, while the ergonomic white lid/sippy rim is like the flourescent stuffed gorilla you won on the claw machine at the Bob Evans afterward. Wait...what? I'm pretty sure she mentioned to him that he had the wrong size and was a horrible parent to his children in line behind him, but let him slide anyway. Despite her usual friendly demeanor, she does get a little ticked if you tell her about the newspaper you're going to grab on the way out the door instead of having it physically there so at the P.O.S.(point of sale) 
she can zap it with her lazer dick. If you ever go to a Waffle House and manage to not get kicked out for havin' a wrassle with Kid Rock or Bob Seger or some other American bad-ass who writes self-fulfilling lyrical prophecies to poignent, heartfelt American rock ballads about "being on the road", the waitstaff there'll call you "hon" (short for honkey, I presume) and tell you to have a great morning, as well! So why is service so lame in the other places I go into that don't sell taquitos or waffles? The 7-Eleven lady knows a bunch of customers by their first names even, which makes me wonder when we'll be on a first-name-basis and I'll spot for her in the weightroom at the rec center or maybe we'll run into each other at the Target's or the K-Mart's or play a game of Aggrivation together or some other fucking awesome shit. The problem with convenient America is that it's quantity over quality. Consider the pharmacy. Pharmacies are the last safe harbor for buying embarrassing health and lifestyle products: Adult Diapers, Stool Softener, Jock Itch/Anal itch creams, pregnancy tests, "warming"-type lubricants, condoms, Vagisil, baby powder, douche bags, Vaseline, male sexual enhancement suppliments(Nymphomax, Cocksplosion, maybe even something called
HerbalQuiver, I guess) lice combs, polaroid film, and diarreha plugger. Spending an awkward 36 seconds waiting for the canon that is your receipt, to print can make you queasy and then you'll have to run back and get some milk of magnesia and they'll all laugh at you because you have diarreha ontop of your jock itch. If you can't offer friendly, professional-grade clerkery then go play intermurals, brother. But what might even more frightening than 47-inch receipt scrolls, all that knuckle hair dusting your Hamiltons and being called 'boss,' with every purchase is the motherfucking paranormal, bitches.
Why is it that whenever some shit is haunted, it's a rectory or prison or olden time house? Why don't liquor-lotto stores or CVS's or 7-Eleven's ever get haunted by ghosts? There was this one time when this hobo walked in at Liqour Lotto Dollar Store and More and he had silver paint all over his mouth and nose, emitting a ghastly odor, looking all otherworldly while his metal-encrusted, Cuban-heeled Tony Lamas were making a clanking noise, like motherfucker was Jacob Marley hisself. I though to myself, is this place haunted or is that a hobo who's been huffing silver paint and wearing Tony Lamas?! Spooky shit.
