And This is Why I Read Crystal . . .
My last stop of the day was at the tanning place. I approached the oblivious toddler behind the counter and waited patiently for her to hang up her cell phone and acknowledge me. When she finally did so, she sighed impatiently and asked, “Last name?”
“McKnob. But, I have a question.”
She raised her eyebrows at me to indicate her burning desire to know what was troubling me.
“I know jack shit about tanning, obviously. That’s why people randomly take my pulse when I’m sleeping. But I spent a gob of money in here last week to do away with some of my sickly pastiness and I was advised to buy points. Then the other girl talked me into a lotion that has unicorn sperm in it because it’s supposed to make me look like a Coppertone girl overnight or something. I use it as directed, climb in that bed that talks down to me in her snooty British accent and I wait. I’ve used it seven times and I found out last week that the points thing? Waste of money. Also, a girl that used to work here told me the bed I’m in is for maintaining color, not establishing, so I’m wondering why no one told me that and why I was coerced into spending four times the amount of money on points when a membership would have been cheaper.”
She chewed thoughtfully on her gum. Finally, brow creased, she said, “What?”
“Let me try one of the beds that are bad for your skin and get a membership, please.”
She visibly brightened. “Oh, okay! I’ll set you up in bed three.”
“Is there a fire extinguisher in there?”
“No…?”
“I need one.” While she typed, I mumbled. “PETA has it all wrong. They need to be in here, saving us from ourselves.”
Toddler looked up. “Did you say something?”
“Yeah, does it have stuff on your computer screen, like, ‘Baste liberally and cook at 400 degrees for ten to twelve minutes’?”