I had to go to the market on the way from my brother’s house, to where they were camping 30 minutes away, alongside the American River (yes, I went swimming…water is a wonderful 60).
Dawn forgot the Ceasar croutons, and unforgivably, the anchovies. I got the Italian imported ones for three times the price. Side note: Italians and French eat anchovies all the time. They are salty, not unworkably so, as is the case you typically get here.
Anyway, camping dinner was a success.
…I had two items for the young, attractive checkout girl. She chatted me up. “Ceasar salad?”
“I don’t like salad,” she says. “Don’t like the texture.”
“So, you’re one of those carnivorous types,” I enjoin; adding, “maybe you see the food chain, and animals eat the salad and you eat them…?”
Herbivore vegan butts in, but with perceived, cathartic “moral” licence, since he’s an entitled FUCKTARD:
“How humanitarian of you.”
I spun my head in a microsecond and turned volume to high:
“That’s exactly right. I’m a human-itarian,” purposefully putting emphaaaaasis on the wrong sylaaaaable.
“I am not an animal-itarian. Do you understand the difference?”
He immediately scurried off, wishing me a nice day. I looked around the public space. Saw lots of smiles.