The Rose Peddler

We had just sat down to have our mid-day bread breaking when a good-old boy, who apparently either can’t read or just doesn’t give a shit about the no-soliciting sign on the door cruised in. I figure it’s the latter, as it is posted on our door in plain sight where one would grab the handle and pull the door.



So, there we are. I wish my delicious Chicken Caesar Salad and OG with her ethinic beet soup. We are about to give thanks and partake, when this asshole walks in.

”Did you miss me?” He asks as he swaggers our way, booty in hand.

“Uh, no. It’s been about a year though.” OG says.

He sets his goods, dozens of long stem roses (which were mighty pretty to be sure) on our lunch table.

“Remember how much they are?” He winks at OG as she was the one who actually paid notice to his punk ass interupting our bread breaking.

“No,” she says, “but it doesn’t matter. We don’t want any anyway.”

Then I chime in, “You can donate some for my bachelorette party tonight.”

Of which he offers congrats, but ignores the donation request… dick.

“Well, you could buy some to toss at your stripper.” He says trying to appeal to my wild side.

“I ain’t got no stripper lined up, dude.” I reply, agast that he would even dream up that sales pitch.

“Mother or mother-in-law you could get some for?” he’s getting desparate.

So I decide to go in for the kill.

“Look guy, I’ll be completely honest. I’m not buying any because I am saving every penny to get balls out drunk tonight and if I buy your roses… that, my friend, will cut into my drinking budget.”

Have a great desert day, pal.