Switch in Time
I have a diver's watch of which I'm rather fond.
I use its little ratchet wheel quite frequently at work, timing my smoke and lunch breaks and the occasional mid-morning poo.
When I noticed the outer ring had fallen to the floor a couple days ago, I found it a little upsetting. The feeling soon passed as I leaned out to reach it and pissed down the back of my pants.
That afternoon I took the watch to Wal-Mart. The bangle frau explained that because mine was a water-resistant chronometer, Wal-Mart could not guarantee the battery's seal and was thereby serving official notice that should I decide to replace said battery and thereafter expose my diver's watch to moisture, Wal-Mart would not be held liable for its repair or replacement. In conspiratorial tones she finally suggested I visit a real jewelry store.
I had been to the real jewelry store. The real jewelry store wanted eight bucks for the battery alone, five more to re-attch the little segmented piece.
Thanking the crone, I turned to leave her department when I noticed a display of plasticine boxes, each containing a timepiece.
Three bucks.
I chose a shiny silver pocket model and gladly paid the lady in cash, plus my seven percent to Uncle Sam.
The diver's watch sits in a little puzzle box beside the TV on my dresser.
I hope my wrist doesn't peel.
I use its little ratchet wheel quite frequently at work, timing my smoke and lunch breaks and the occasional mid-morning poo.
When I noticed the outer ring had fallen to the floor a couple days ago, I found it a little upsetting. The feeling soon passed as I leaned out to reach it and pissed down the back of my pants.
That afternoon I took the watch to Wal-Mart. The bangle frau explained that because mine was a water-resistant chronometer, Wal-Mart could not guarantee the battery's seal and was thereby serving official notice that should I decide to replace said battery and thereafter expose my diver's watch to moisture, Wal-Mart would not be held liable for its repair or replacement. In conspiratorial tones she finally suggested I visit a real jewelry store.
I had been to the real jewelry store. The real jewelry store wanted eight bucks for the battery alone, five more to re-attch the little segmented piece.
Thanking the crone, I turned to leave her department when I noticed a display of plasticine boxes, each containing a timepiece.
Three bucks.
I chose a shiny silver pocket model and gladly paid the lady in cash, plus my seven percent to Uncle Sam.
The diver's watch sits in a little puzzle box beside the TV on my dresser.
I hope my wrist doesn't peel.
posted by Jeff at 21:45
2 Comments:
The story was better told in person...Maybe because you left out the urination rumination?
Did I leave that out? Hmm. Maybe it's time to adjust my prescription.
I will miss the Harp and Bass, though.
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