My Name Isn’t Earl

I was out buying some lemonade at the shop at lunchtime. There was a bit of a queue but it didn’t take long for me to get to the front. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a doddery old man form a breakaway queue. This wasn’t the work of some queue jumping genius, this was the work of a man whose brain shuffled around the bottom of his skull like a handful of desicated coconut in a goldfish bowl. As luck would have it somebody opened a new checkout and the woman asked who was next clearly looking at me ignoring the breakaway republic of Spar. This didn’t matter to the old guy who hadn’t even noticed the existence of a queue next to him with six people in it. He shuffled forwards towards the till while the woman serving was giving me a look that suggested I should make a break for it and get there before him.

I decided to top up my karma and let him go anyway. He seemed to be struggling with a couple of largish boxes. He got to the counter and the conversation went something like this:

Shop Staff: Where did you get this box?
Little Old Man: Yes?
SS: This box has 36 kit-kats in.
LOM: Yes
SS: Do you want one…
LOM: Yes
SS: …or do you want 36?
LOM: Yes
SS: Shall I price the box for you?
LOM: Yes
SS: It’ll be quite expensive
LOM: That’s OK
SS: It’ll be £19
LOM: That’s way too much!
SS: How many kit-kats can you afford?
LOM: Six

Sadly I got served at the other till by this point so I never did find out what was in his second box. What would he have done with 36 kit-kats? One of those 8 packs of two-stick kit-kats would last a pensioner two years.

I wish he had made it home with his box of kit-kats but I fear he would have been striken with grief when he discovered the box didn’t in fact contain one massive kit-kat. It can’t have helped the poor worker who was trying to stack the kit-kats in the first place either.

If Nestlé want to send me a load of kit-kats for mentioning their product it’s kit-kat chunky that I like thanks.