Waiting Rooms

People often take the comfort and entertainment of waiting rooms for granted. I've been to two in the last two days (once for a haircut and once for an oil change), and you just hear interesting things.

The other day, I sign in to get a haircut and take a seat. There are about three people around me, and one of them is this chick with a cellphone who is talking loudly enough that everyone can at least hear her side of the conversation. I myself was preoccupied with reading over how America sucked it in skiing for the 2006 winter Olympics when a select grouping of words catches my ears.

"A problem with my ovaries."

YES! Now we're talking, lady. This is much more interesting then some Olympic bullshit about the Koreans vindicating themselves for blowing their shot at gold in 2002. Apparently, phone-girl says that this fill-in-the-blank ovary problem is common among young women like herself. Absolutely fascinating. Honestly... how often do I ever get to hear about maladies that deal with ovaries? Like in a serious conversation, even. Because I've probably talked about punching women in the ovaries in the past (I'm gangsta like that), but overhearing serious ovary talk? Good times.

Maybe she was being so loud in hopes that one of the other individuals in the room would be a doctor... a nurse... perhaps a med student who could delve into the vast jumble of confusion that are her ovaries. In any case, I got my hair cut, bid her ovaries ado, and was about to get out of the seat I had just got my hair cut in when... the haircutter man rubs my head to get loose hair off... AFTER he already took the hair-to-body protective tarp off of me. Y'know, that weird poncho thing that keeps hair from getting all over you? Yeah. The back of my shirt was fucking drenched, covered, and possibly smothered in hair. So the other thing I bid ado was his tip. Hahaha. Score one for Chris.

My next waiting room venture was nowhere near as exciting as I waited for my car's oil filter to get changed out. But just as I go to pay for my shit, the guy says, "Know what I saw in a zoo in Hawaii once?"

With an eager hope that "ovary problems" would be his response, I asked, "What was that?"

"A white peacock. Totally white," he said as he ran my credit card through.

How the fuck do you respond to that? Here's how: I nodded as if interested and said, "You really don't see something like an albino peacock often."

He chuckled and replied, "No, but there were TWO of these peacocks. Two all-white peacocks."

At this point, hearing the word peacock so many times in a short span was getting to me, so I had to break the tension the only way I knew how. Taking back my card, I slid my wallet intyo my back pocket and casually uttered, "Tastes like fruit when you hit it... Gotta have bread to get it... Smoke all night, sleep all day... That to me's the American way."

OK, so maybe I didn't spout off the lyrics of Three 6 Mafia to the autoshop guy, but I did bid him a fucking ado. And that, my friends, to me's the American way. So roll that shit which we call life... light that shit, hit that shit, hold that shit, blow that shit out slow. Then pass it to me, bro.

To me, that would be fair enough. Peace!