Who are my people?

I woke up Sunday morning to find that my barbecue was dead. Not out of propane, no, just rusted through and broken.

I drove to Lowe’s to buy a new one. It didn’t occur to me to think about if the barbecue would fit in my car. It didn’t. The very nice Lowe’s woman was like, “Oh honey. This happens to your people all the time! Just borrow this screw driver, unscrew those side flap things, take them off, and it will pop right in.”

I’m like, who are my people? Dyslexics? Atheists? Entitled white men with back hair?

Anyway, to unscrew I was forced to sit my fat ass down on the Lowe’s parking lot, all plumber crack like, and drop screws on the hot tarmac for nearly an hour. Several very nice people stopped to ask if they could help. I politely decline as I felt compelled to prove the worth of my people.

At some point the Lowe’s woman came back out and said, “Honey you forgot your instruction manual.  Here, catch!”  She tossed it at me.  It fell at my feet.  “My people don’t catch” I explained.  She frowned and walked back into the store.

Finally I unscrewed and the barbecue did pop right into my car

Back at home, I had to sit my fat ass on the floor of my garage, all plumber crack like, spiders everywhere, while I began to rescrew. 60 minutes later I had rescrewed.  There were 7 left over screws that I was unable to find holes for, and my butt itched badly, but I had proven the worth of my people.

My people: we can unscrew, we can rescrew, but we can’t catch. 

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