Blunt Delivery: where honesty flows like boxed wine | relationships | i hate women | photography » Kenny Chronicles

A Conversation At Starbucks

A Bad Gordita And Some Classy Water

Kenny Chronicles: “Officer, What Do You Take Me For?”

Blunt Delivery — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 01:57:51 +0000

STOP THE PRESSES! If you keep reading, you will be lost and wandering through the woods like Bambi after he got ravaged by a wolf. This is part II of a series, first you must read the Kenny Chronicles: Risky Doesn’t Begin To Describe This Business. No really, get out of here.

This is quite long, it really should have been 3 parts… but who has patience for that? Okay, where were we? Oh yes. Circa 2006. I was going to house sit for Slumdog Millionaire [heroin addict ex-boyfriend] while he was in London “sorting himself out.” So being the responsible house sitter, I was in full party planning mode with Kenny [metrosexual BFF] for our Top Secret Risky Business-themed-birthday bash, scheduled for the weekend after Slumdog departed. My old London roommate was flying out from the Big Apple. The DJ was booked. Ray Bans and five thousand glow in the dark beads were ordered. Approximately 300 invitations were accidentally sent out.

Brief history of “the house” in question: I don’t think you understand. This house was in the NICEST neighborhood in my entire city. Quiet little families. Doctors and Lawyers. Maple trees, Unicorns, and rainbows EVERYWHERE. The only parties thrown in this neighborhood were, like, Mary Kay related. This knowledge will come in handy later on.

And now, courtesy of the recent archaeological dig in my Myspace Museum, I present to you an exact replica of the invitation to the “Kenny & Brit Risky Business B-day Bash of 06.” [My observations have been made in pink]

Dear those who like Tom Cruise and those who don’t,

I’m about 99% sure one of these things is currently true: 1. Your panties are now officially in a bundle. 2. Your mom still cooks a mean casserole. 3. Making out is my favorite past-time. Wait, sorry! We’re not talking about me.

Well, fear not, for the clouds have cleared and I can see the party of your life shining through – as if it were some golden ray of sunlight after a cold, dark & lonely winter void of human interaction and … wait, what? So break out the Velcro shoulder pads, the stars are aligned and its the Age of Aquarius. [clearly, my schizophrenic writing style and tendency to digress have not matured over time]

THE OFFICIAL DAY THAT YOU’RE GONNA LOVE YOUR LIFE: FRIDAY, AUGUST 4th @ 9pm-? We have condensed the guest list considerably [from what, 1000?] because this cannot get out of hand!! WARNING: Hey, Conan and the rest of you barbarians! You will be kicked out faster than Michael Jackson in a daycare if you do any of the following: [this was the second, ahem, slightly over-sized and out of control get together that we threw in Slumdog's house]

*smoke inside the house (cuz you did last time)
*punch holes thru the walls or rip off the thermostat (cuz you did last time)
*spill stuff all over the place like you’ve got cerebral palsy (cuz you did last time)

[INSERT CRISIS] Four days before the party, Slumdog informs me that he’s not flying home.

Me: Um. [ losing my last fricken' marble on the inside] I thought you were going to sort yourself out and get better? Don’t you want to get BETTER? Don’t you care about me? And your mom. What about your mom? You haven’t seen your mom in like a year?! What kind of son ARE YOU?

Needless to say, guilt trips don’t work very well on people who are on drugs to escape reality and feelings -thus, he missed his flight. Kenny and I went into full fledged Mission Impossible crisis mode. I had to do something drastic. I bought him a new ticket and if I had to sell my soul to make sure he went, I was ready. But the only ticket I could get was for the day AFTER our party.

Me [to Slumdog]: So I’ve bought you a new ticket for this weekend. You leave on Sunday, but I’ve arranged for ___ to pick you up on Friday and you’re going to stay in Chicago for the weekend and hang out on a yacht. It’ll be good for you. Have fun.

Night before the party I receive this email from Kenny:

From: Chad-a-licious

To: Neil, I still hate you.
Date: Aug 3, 2006 7:43 PM
Subject: Oh, by the way…

…let’s see. Could I be anymore frickin’ nervous??!!
[[exhale]] oh, boy… :S

and is that receptionist from the laser place still comin’???

Typical. When Slumdog arrived in Chicago, Kenny and I were an hour away moving all the furniture out of his house, taping black garbage bags to all the windows, installing ambient lighting, and sweating bullets. It was a hot mess. And so were we cus I got a call from Slumdog every 5 minutes saying he wanted to come home. [For a moment I'd like to flash back to my college days and have Miss Brooks switch that "B" to an "A" cus, wow, this was a persuasive speech the likes of which you've never seen.]

So the DJ was set up in the main living room. Yea, the one with a big giant window that you’d usually drive by and see a Christmas tree in. By about 10 pm, the entire neighborhood was lined with cars and people I’d never seen before were wandering through people’s yards in pursuit of the party. The back deck was filled with rowdy smokers. This party was anything but down low.

By the third time the cops came, I mistakenly thought he said I would be arrested, and I burst out into tears. Kenny, as usual, took over.

[standing in the front doorway] Officer: Do you realize this is a neighborhood where people have children?

Kenny: Yes, sir. I know, we had no idea it was so loud. [lies. lies from the depths of hell!] We will keep it down.

Officer: I’ve been getting alot of complaints. [peeking his head in at all the destruction] There wouldn’t happen to be any minors here would there?

Kenny: Officer. [putting his hand on his heart] Officer, what do you take me for? I am 25 years old. Do you really think a guy like me would allow something like that – in a neighborhood like this? In a house like this? Sir, rest assured, I have dotted every “i” and crossed every “t.”

And at that very moment, you could hear the sound of every Abercrombie & Fitch employee running out the back door and taking shelter in neighbors’ various swing sets and tube slides.

Kenny Chronicles: Risky Doesn’t Begin To Describe This Business

Blunt Delivery — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 06:42:04 +0000

[This is part I of a two part series, inspired by the fact that I was deleting my Myspace account. I realized that they had saved every email correspondence from the past 6 years... it was like discovering the Pompeii of my social life. There they were, all my shennanigans. Pefectly and horrifically preserved.]

PREFACE: To be a successful person in life and also to understand this blog, you should have some familiarity with the Kenny Chronicles . But for those of you who won’t because you’re too lazy (and God love you for that) I will give you a brief background. Whilst attending college in London, I met a charming, British Indian lad who was stricken by yours truly. Several months later, he moved to my blue-collar, closed-minded Midwestern town to “study abroad,” but I fear all of that was just a really pathetic excuse for said illegal immigrant to be with yours truly. But can you blame the chap? Shortly thereafter, I discovered charming lad had more money than God and a very hopeless addiction to heroin. Two traits that I don’t generally seek out. In the rolodex of past relationships, I now affectionately refer to him as My Slumdog Millionaire. Oh, and Kenny. He is basically the male version of me, otherwise known as my metrosexual best friend.

The moment Slumdog moved here, it was blatently obvious that he didn’t belong. Everyone here is exactly the same. He was British. He was Indian. He was 26. He wore Versace Couture and got regular facials. He had no occupation, yet immediately paid cash for a home in my city’s most expensive neighborhood, where he parked a Porsche Carerra 911 and two Mercedes in the driveway. He was surrounded on all sides by maple trees and white doctors with young families. To say that he stuck out, would be to say that my mother is paranoid of life, or that my dad hates Al Gore, or that I have a mild distaste for mayonnaise and commitment.

Among the many positive benefits that heroin has to offer, my favorite is paranoia. It only took about two days on American soil for Slumdog to decide that our unexplainable chemistry meant that Kenny and I were having a secret, steamy love affair. I laid down the law that Kenny wasn’t going anywhere. Long ago, Kenny and I came to the conclusion that when we finally meet “the one” they will understand our relationship. It seems that since then we’ve both dated quite a few “not-the-ones.” During the three years of hell that followed, Kenny was the only person who knew. He helped me hang on to any small shred of sanity I had left, when he wasn’t pissing me off, of course. We crafted many a sneaky maneuver to carefully hide the addiction from everyone, including friends, neighbors, family, my employees… and the cops. As someone who hadn’t had any experience with drug addicts [so sue me], I didn’t want everyone to judge him on the off chance that he might someday overcome his addiction. Chalk that up to naivete and Nice Midwestern Girl Syndrome – both traits of which I’m glad to be free.

In a last ditch effort to gain me back for the 100th time, Slumdog planned a trip to see his London doctor and ”sort himself out.” As usual, I was left to tend to all of his bills, the ginormous house, 3 cats, 300 gallon salt water SHARK TANK [for which I had to dice up raw shrimp and squid to satisfy their ravenous appetites morning, noon, AND NIGHT], and various other duties – all while I was attempting to run my retail store in the mall. Bottle of wine, anyone?

Kenny and I had always thrown combined birthday parties. Well, hey, whaddya know? I’m going to have a big, huge house all to myself… I spose we could just have a small little get together type thingy here, eh? And so we started planning a top secret gathering for the week after Slumdog’s departure. It was especially confidential since Slumdog hated the Kenny. And Slumdog was a freakishly paranoid about his house and/or possessions.

The theme was to be “Risky Business”… cus well, it was. And Kenny has always had a ridiculously unwarranted mild obsession with Tom Cruise [and does bear a slight resemblance to him circa Top Gun. ..or so he says]. We had sent out a few, or 300, invitations via every social networking avenue available. I should also mention that we’re not good at keeping promises, or anything on the “down low.” Thus, we booked a DJ, purchased ambient lighting for the entire house, ordered several hundred glow in the dark beads and Ray Bans, and secured people to help us move out all the furniture. My London roommate was also flying out from New York for the, uh, get together. Oh, this is only the beginning.

Things to anticipate in part II:

*An exact replica of the party invitation as has been preserved in the MySpace museum.

*When everything blows up in our big, fat lying faces.

*Slumdog misses his flight to London, which throws Kenny and I into Mission Impossible crisis mode.

*Kenny distracting the cops, as I burst out into tears and tons of minors scatter out the back door and hide inside the rich neighbors’ tube slides.

UPDATE: CLICK HERE FOR PART II

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

Technologically Challenged

Kenny Chronicles: I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast

Blunt Delivery — Mon, 25 May 2009 02:40:33 +0000

I haven’t said the word “sausage” for going on 15 years. It’s a personal protest, don’t worry about it. Unless I’m struggling to order a pizza, this usually doesn’t present a problem. Of course, there was that time I worked at Chuck E. Cheese all four years of high school, where pizza and little kids accidentally peeing in the tube slide were the only topics of conversation. Eventually, I got it down to a fine science, where I would simply nod and point to the menu on the wall behind me and say, “Ok, so, you want this one then?”

Now that I reminisce, that truly was a dream job. Aside from being permanently sick, due to filthy, germ-coated everything, I squandered my days away by misspelling kids’ names on chocolate birthday cakes so I could eat them, while flirting with the game table hottie. Things couldn’t get much better. Why I ever left remains one of the biggest mysteries of my life.

Speaking of breakfast food, let’s talk about Kenny.

So Kenny and I are hanging out and discussing everything that is important in life. As usual, at some point, the conversation takes a random turn down a long, winding road and we end up in a place that I’ve never been before. Nor do I ever want to go again. It’s some sort of a lonely wheat field, or abandoned Waffle House – there’s no way of knowing. And the following conversation takes place:

Kenny: I mean, he was like this guy that just smelled like maple syrup.

Me: Someone can’t smell like maple syrup.

Kenny: Oh, someone can. And they did.

Me: That’s ridiculous. You know that’s ridiculous right?

Kenny: It’s ridiculously true.

Me: But that makes no sense. Did he just get back from IHOP or something?

Kenny: [shaking his head with a very defeated look on his face] No…he just smelt like it permanently. What’s worse is people who smell like maple syrup and pee.

Me: Who smells like pee? No one smells like pee. Did he work in a nursery?

Kenny: I’m not exactly sure. But he smelt like breakfast.

Me: …..

Kenny: I just… I hate people who smell like breakfast.

Me: Maple syrup smells delicious. I wish everyone smelt like maple syrup. This kid used to sit behind me after lunch and he reaked of ketchup.

Kenny: [laughs] What? Ketchup? Why?

Me: Cus all he ate was fries at lunch. Well see, now you understand why I can’t eat condiments.

Kenny: Well, maple syrup is just completely ruined for me. [Sigh] I used to love that stuff.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

Technologically Challenged

Kenny Chronicles: Technologically Challenged

Blunt Delivery — Sun, 22 Mar 2009 20:46:59 +0000

So Kenny, my metrosexual best friend and I are doing some errands around town, when my mom calls:

Mom: I have a pretty serious problem.

Me: What’s wrong?!?

Mom: I can’t watch any of my shows. And Dancing With The Stars is premiering tonight and I can’t watch that either!

Me: Why? Do you want me to tape it?

Mom: Well your dad said we need some kind of box to watch local channels now. They’re all fuzzy. Except I remind him to get one everyday, but he forgets to get one everyday.

Me: A digital converter box?

Mom: Is that the thing that will make the channels clear?

Me: Yes. Well, I could pick one up for you – I’m just running some errands.

Mom: Well can you get it tonight? I’ve already missed two weeks.

So Kenny and I go to Best Buy. Normally, my independent side refuses to ask for any kind of help from an associate. I don’t know why, but we certainly don’t have time to diagnose that tonight. I was in a HUGE rush, so as soon as we enter the door, I cringe a little and ask the security guy where the digital converter boxes are. He says, “See the Home Theater sign? Right under that.” Sweet. That doesn’t sound complicated.

Kenny and I reach the Home Theater section and wander up and down a few aisles. Neither of us see anything resembling what we’re looking for. We loiter around for a bit and I make eye contact with two associates, but they were helping other people.

Me: Well, they HAVE to be here! Do you see anything?

Kenny: Really? Look who you’re talking to. Just ask someone or we’ll be here all day.

So a guy walks by and says he’ll be with me in a minute, but the minute never came. Eventually, I can’t wait any longer so I told Kenny to wait where he was and I’d get some help.

Me: Sir, I’m sorry. I’m in a huge rush. I just really need to find the digital converter boxes. I was told they’re in this section but I can’t find anything.

Best Buy Guy: Oh, sure. [he comes over to me and points] See right where that guys is?

Me: Yea.

Best Buy Guy: He’s leaning right on em. There’s a stack about 8′x4′.

And there it was. The most gigantic pile of digital converter boxes that there ever was. And there was Kenny, just leaning on them with a confused look on his face. Obviously, I had to snap a picture so I could make a public mockery of the moment.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

Kenny Chronicles: How We Met

Blunt Delivery — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 06:00:26 +0000

Kenny is my best-metro-guy-friend. He’s the marshmallow in my hot chocolate. I have a habit of using our interactions to get a cheap laugh on my website. It’s high time you understood how we met.

It was a cold and rainy night several years ago.

Well, I don’t know about all that, but it was night, for sure. I went to a music festival that we have in my hometown every labor day. It’s an event that you have no desire to attend after the age of 17, but somehow you end up going every year because someone’s dad got free tickets from their work [ or ] you’re bored out of your mind.

I went with a guy that pretty much every person in my town either knows or “has heard of” because he’s just that absurd. We’ll call him Joe. Oh wait, that’s his actual name. Oh well. As we’re walking back to our car, this guy walks up to us, Joe turns to me and says, this is my best friend Kenny. Shortly after that Joe started chasing one of the cleaning trucks, hopped on the back of it, and rode off into the sunset. At that very moment, Kenny and I looked at eachother, shook our heads, and said, “Yea. That’s about right.”

[Skip ahead a couple of weeks] We’re at birthday party downtown Chicago. We ended up sleeping on the floor of one of Kenny’s friend’s apartments. I’m not going to make any apologies for what I’m about to say: this place was a skeezy trash hole. There was like 8 people living there and I felt like I was getting a disease just by looking at the toilet seat.

In the morning, I rustled a little, tried to go back to sleep but I couldn’t. I looked over at Kenny and he just had a confused look on his face. We glanced up at the tv, and what do we see? Gay porn. YUP. Apparently, one of the tenants was gay. He wasn’t seriously watching it, he was making fun of it, but either way – Kenny and I looked at eachother and immediately said “let’s go get the car.”

I put my heels back on, which fit nicely over the massive blisters I acquired the night before and we stepped outside. I have mascara smeared all over my face, it’s blazing hot outside, and I’m still wearing my black “going out clothes.” It’s 10:00 am Sunday morning and we look ridiculous. After we had walked around the city for about 20 mins, I say:

me: wait, I think we already went passed that building.

kenny: no we didn’t. the car is parked on the street over there.

me: but that’s the White Hen Pantry that we saw 5 mins ago?

kenny: no, no it’s not. they’re like on every corner here.

me: but… WAIT! that’s the same homeless guy. we just went in a giant circle!

kenny: homeless guys wander around.

me: NO. they stay in one spot. wait, you don’t have any idea where the car is do you?

kenny: well, I don’t know if you could say I have no idea, but I’m not exactly sure either.

me: WHAT? Well then why are we wandering aimlessly in the blazing sun when i’m tired, dehydrated, and blistery? and I look ridiculous? Why don’t you know where it is? you’re the man, you’re supposed to know.

kenny: Everything looks the same here.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

Kenny Chronicles: A Conversation at Starbucks

Blunt Delivery — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 05:33:46 +0000

Kenny, my metrosexual best friend and I meet at a bookstore or Starbucks on a quasi-regular basis to discuss our issues. I think we feel that the bookstore-ish surroundings make us more intellectual than we actually are, which in turn helps us more quickly penetrate to the heart of our problems. Of course, this isn’t really successful because everyone acknowledges that merely sitting in a bookstore does not make you more intellectual

I arrive to find Kenny sitting out on the patio, sipping on an overly-priced mountain of coffee flavored whipped cream and looking rather introspective. As I park my car, I instantly notice a drastic change upon my friend’s all too familiar face. I don’t like change. Before I sit down, I go inside and purchase the ridiculously too-big cookie of the day, which is always some random shape that makes no sense. That day it was a lemon wedge. And the following conversation begins:

Me: Seriously? You got your hair cut.

Kenny: I couldn’t stand it anymore.

Me: But Richie’s wedding is next week.

Kenny: I know. But it’s sooooo hot outside.

Me: Sooo hot? My hair is black and 3 feet long and you don’t see me buzzing it off do you?

Kenny: Relaaaax. IT’S HAIR. It’ll grow back.

Me: Not in ONE WEEK! How many months have I been saying that we need to get some good pictures at this wedding? And you keep it long this entiiiire time….And a week before the wedding you get too hot?

Kenny: I know we need some new pictures. We’ll get some.

Me: No we won’t. because we cannot possibly have cute pictures with your hair hacked off like that.

Kenny: It doesn’t look that bad?

Me: Well it doesn’t look that good. Ugh. This is unbelievable.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast

Photo credit: Starbucks

Kenny Chronicles: How to Talk Yourself Out of Dating Almost Anyone

Blunt Delivery — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 01:59:25 +0000

So Kenny and I were discussing dating. Not dating each other, but dating in general. We often times find ourselves having these kind of conversations in hopes of understanding our issues so that we may become a beacon of light, a shining example for our gender. Or we do it because we are the only ones who will not judge ourselves.

First, there’s something you’ve got to understand about Kenny. Kenny once broke up with a girl because of her elbows. And I rejected a guy one time because he was too Italian. And I love Italians, so as you can imagine, this was a travesty of mass proportion. The point is: we are relationally challenged. We’re very good at talking ourselves out of things using any justification at our disposal, and if there isn’t one available then we just make it up. Most of our conversations resemble reruns of Seinfeld or something of that nature.

So we’re sitting there, discussing our problems, and the following conversation takes place:

Me: ok. so, again….why can’t you like her?

Kenny: well, the personality is great. face is great. everything is great. and I might even say it’d be the real deal if…

Me: ….if what?

Kenny: it weren’t for the gap.

Me: what gap?

Kenny: the teeth gap. can’t get passed it.

Me: Okay… so you’re not going to date this girl, who otherwise might be the one, because you can’t get passed the gap?

Kenny: no, its not just the gap. but thats a big part of it.

Me: well that’s good to know. I’m glad it’s not just the gap, but that it’s a whole slew of frivilous things. progress has been made.

Kenny: i mean, if i could just close it somehow……… [holds up his first finger and thumb to form a gap]

Me: close it? no. not gonna happen. and you can’t suggest that. no. NO.

Kenny: no? but what if….

Me: NO.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

Technologically Challenged

Kenny Chronicles: A Metrosexual in a Yankees Hat

Blunt Delivery — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 01:36:19 +0000

If you’ve read any of my previous posts regarding my best friend Kenny, you’ll be not so surprised to hear that he is indeed a metrosexual male. And when I say metrosexual, I mean he’s one manbag away from starring in an Off-Broadway musical and getting regular pedicures – except he likes the ladies.

When I say metro, I mean that he doesn’t comprehend the words “just throw on some clothes and meet me at the bookstore.” He comes with all the glorious benefits of a girlfriend, yet [ BONUS] I don’t have to be tormented witless by the catty moodswinging madness! Drama, yes. He does have that. But at least not between us. Indirect drama I can handle.

So Kenny is one of these people who says he’ll meet you at noon, but by the time he gets done tweaking his hair, changing his outfit five times, and analyzing his level of winter “paleness” sufficiently – it’s over. The moment has passed and I’m in my PJ’s, watching reruns of Family Matters. Maybe it was the massive amount of whining I’ve done over the years, or maybe he just got sick of all the hassle -but Kenny decided he was going to become “I don’t care” casual. Of course, the effort involved in Kenny trying to look like he doesn’t care, takes an awful lot of caring.

[ Cut to conversation at my house]: Kenny walks in…

me: what? why are you wearing… a baseball cap?

kenny: It’s the new-casual-I-don’t-care-Kenny. [points to hat] what do you think?

me: it looks weird.

kenny: like, weird different or weird ugly?

me: like, weird I’ve-never-seen-you-in-a-hat -ever-weird. and a baseball cap? I need to sit down.

kenny: I searched for weeks to find just the right one that would look good on my head.

me: the reason guys wear baseball caps is so they can disguise their unshowered hair. it’s not supposed to look perfect on your head. and it’s a Yankees hat. do you even know who the Yankees are?

kenny: yea, they’re a baseball team.

me: you could have at least gotten a Cubs hat. That would have made more sense.

kenny: yea, but my other friend got the Cubs one, I can’t have the same one.

me: everyone has a Cubs hat – we live next to Chicago.

kenny: well I like this one, it looks good on me.

me: wait…. hold the phone. is that a SWEATSHIRT you’re wearing?

kenny: yea.

me: wow…i actually like it. looks good on you.

kenny: yea, it’s a fitted one. picked it up at Abercrombie.

me: ok, seriously? this isn’t your thing.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

Kenny Chronicles: A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

Blunt Delivery — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 00:49:18 +0000

Again, if you don’t know who Kenny is, please do some research, get your life together, and then return back to this post.

[a telephone conversation between Kenny and I]

Me: [yawn....] so are we looking for paint colors for your room today or what?

Kenny: [several seconds, but what feels like hours of groaning, sighing, and cover rustling] well, I don’t feel so good. I have food poisoning. I’ve been up all night vomiting.

Me: Oh thank God, because I have waaay too much stuff to do today.

Me: Food poisoning? What did you eat?

Kenny: Some kind of Gordita-nacho-something or other at Taco Bell at 3 am.

Me: Well, did you ever think that wasn’t going to give you food poisoning? Oh, wait! I almost forgot to tell you the good news, World Market is going out of business. I’m going to go see if I can find some cheap stuff.

Kenny: When you’re there can you check and see if the Voss Water is on sale?

Me: Seriously? I really doubt that water will be on sale.

Kenny: Well, can you just check because I need some.

Me: You only like it because of the cool glass bottle.

Kenny: No I don’t. I like the taste of the water.

Me: It can NOT taste that much better than the other waters of the world that you can justify paying 3.49 a bottle.

Kenny: Yes it does.

Me: Ok. Well, I’ll going to level with you. I’m going to World Market today. While I’m there, I’m going to wander aimlessly and manhandle a a large amount of useless nic-nacs and large African vases that I have no intention of buying. But chances are, I probably won’t have time to check on the price of the water.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair