True Story!

There's a story that I'm pretty sure I have to share with the world. But there's a problem: I'm a webcomic geek. Hardcore. Every day I check two email accounts, one personal journal, one or two social network sites, three or four blogs, and eight to ten webcomics. I could try to defend my habit, but I'd just be securing my spot on the Geek Hierarchy: "It's not, like, the funny papers or superhero comics. Webcomics are, like, art SLASH comedy."
I run a blog and not a webcomic for lack of artistic talent and patience. I could always go the Ryan North route, but that would be ripping off Ryan North. I write well, but some stories I just feel would be best conveyed in pictures. Such as this story, that I am pretty sure I need to tell you. It will be slightly amusing to read, but it would be much more affecting to see. I would make a half-assed series of illustrations, but my scanner is permanently busted. Thus, I present to you, the first of possibly many True Stories, as accompanied with beautiful MSPaint illustrations.


I couldn't have been working in my restaurant more than three weeks when this happened. I had a few tables, all served and happily eating, so I was hanging out by the cash register when a voice from the take-out area beckoned to me. I turned around and see a very, very short man with a shining bald head, a curly red beard, great round glasses and business attire. If hobbits hired accountants, this would be their man. Now, I'm not saying he's a loser because he was short and bald and sported a curly beard. There are definitely very awesome, short, stout, bald, bearded people. I just needed you to create a mental picture to combine with his further inward creepiness, thus you get the full idea of the great weirdness of this encounter. This man said to me:



He was referring to the sign between the cash register and the take-out window that reads "WE DO NOT ACCEPT CHECKS!" Not completely understanding why we didn't accept checks, but obviously knowing there was a reason, I just shrugged. Then, he asked if he could hang up some flyers. He was, he informed me, a DJ. Yes, this hobbit-man made a living playing music at parties. I know a DJ. I think old guys who own a bunch of speakers and switch CDS for two hours should be called something else. Like "expensive fleshy jukeboxes".
Anyway, he hands me some of his flyers, which are a bit hideous because he used tiled dollar bills in the background. He made sure he pointed them out to me. He sure was proud of those flyers. "Only two-hundred dollars!" He insisted. "That's very cheap!" I nodded in vauge agreement, but I was distracted. In the corner of his flyer, there was a stamp that had nothing to do with disk jockeying.



No matter what you opinion about abortion is, if I know it within ten seconds of meeting you, you are probably an asshole. I told this story to the boy and he cried, "Why didn't you call him out on being ridiculously forward?" Well, I couldn't really call him out on that or, you know, not having a vagina in front of my other customers. Being paid below minimum wage and making half your salary on based on a stranger's opinion of you has its down side. Oh well. Maybe he was actually just a fan of WHAM?
He gave me his card, which was also graced with the Seal of Making Me Uncomfortable. Seriously, how much time did he have on his hands to stamp all of these flyers and cards? Was that part of his pitch? "I shouldn't just be a cheap middle-aged DJ. I should be a cheap middle-aged DJ that preaches pro-life. I'll have to keep the customers off me with a picket sign!"
He shook my hand. He stopped, and he smiled at me. Not in a friendly way. You know what I'm saying. He said, exactly:



He pointed to his ring to prove it, thanked me, and left. Even after he gave me the old creepy eyes, I didn't have the heart to throw out this odd little man's flyers, so I gave them to the boss's son.
He threw them out for me.
True story.