Johnny Cash and I Are Here to Help

So we were in a furniture store today and The Missus was negotiating with the salesman. For a while The Boy and I distracted ourselves by playing on adjoining electric recliners, drawing disapproving glances from the Help that wasn’t ringing up the big commission with my wife. After I got bored with that, I wandered up to the front of the store and greeted two groups of shoppers with, “Hi, I’m Fang. Can I help you find anything?” before the Help, suddenly alarmed, began to hurry in my direction.

(In my defense, I directed the new shoppers correctly. I’d already noticed the layout of the store and the departments therein; it seemed kind of random to me to me and I was mentally framing my reproach should anyone inquire as to my opinion on the subject.)

No, it was probably my casual shorts and the Johnny Cash t-shirt (above) that the furniture store personnel, all dressed impeccably uncomfortably, objected to.

Anticipating their argument, I explained to the first blowsy, overdressed saleslady who reached me, “It’s okay, you don’t need a tie when you’re wearing a Johnny Cash t-shirt.”

Overwhelmed by my logic—or perhaps just frightened by the thousand-yard-stare in my eyes—she relaxed after a rote exchange of pleasantries and as of right now, all The Missus knows is I was up to something and they had to dispatch people to stop me.



Have I mentioned lately that I’m here to help?