Where are ye from, nancy-boy?!
About an hour and a half ago I was at work, and was asked the single strangest question ever while there.
So I had to take this “large” (read: morbidly obese) person’s groceries out. This was an adventure in itself: The lady had to use the fucking grocery cart (which held a whopping 3 light bags, eggs, and milk; good thing I was there to assist her, she may have busted a hip trying to lift all that!) to prop herself up just to make it out, and by the time we reached her truck she was out of breath. Anyways, the funny part is what she asks me half way there, in one of those I’m-pretty-sure-I-already-hate-you-but-just-to-make-sure kinda voices:
“What nationality are you?”
I was confused… “Um… American. You mean like what’s my heritage?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“German/Italian.”
“Oh.”
…Ok, if you don’t know me, go to the photobucket link off to the top right of this page and look at either the Missoula or Spokane Concert photo gallery, where you’ll find a few pics of me. Yeah, I’m about as fucking white as you can get without being asked “are you sick?” I mean what did she expect? That I was half Saudi and Congolese? Maybe she thought I was one of them albino Iraqis you see all the time on the news, given the tone of voice was more of the “cautious” sort of curiosity.
Christ, I don’t know. Maybe being wider than most door frames affects your vision.
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