OLD NAVY WITH ATTITUDE

In my early college days I’d catch and heave cases of durable items racing down a Spartan semi-truck’s metal rollers to the next stock boy in line. It didn’t matter if I tossed cream corn, green beans, or applesauce in jars—I instinctively plucked them off those rollers and put some air beneath them. At three-thirty every Thursday morning the nature of my game had been to bury the corner of the box into an unsuspecting chest. The faster I could choreograph inconsistent hang times, the more likelihood I’d achieve my goal.

“C’mon tough guy,” I’d say to the sleepy stock boy massaging his sternum (high tosses) or solar plexus (low tosses). I had suffered from little man’s complex and my coworkers bore the brunt of my mental anguish. “What’s a matter, box to light for ya?”

Same modis operandi with the Pepsi. I knew when to man the handcart. I never claimed forearms like Popeye. If we were unloading case loads of bottles, I’d call “dibs” on one of the dollies and wheel Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, and Mountain Dew into our warehouse, positioning the six cases against my right shoulder. Once I established where to park my load, I’d lean the other way, and slide the dolly out with my right foot. The not-so-bright dweebs in the warehouse would stack them twelve high, even if their arms looked like spindles. As for me, I kept wheeling more their way.

After days of searching for a mean, scary Halloween costume, I settled on today’s picture. Please, no YMCA jokes.

Have a Happy Halloween everyone.