Grocery Store God

I like that the uniform for clerks at the QFC is short-sleeved button down shirts with black ties.

When I see them on their breaks or going home, they look like fallen Mormons, smoking up a storm while furrowing their pierced eyebrow in angst, or scowling on their way to the car, six-pack in hand, after a hard day of stocking celery.

It's like Jehovah has just been asking too much and all they want is to lead a simple life of clerking and drinking and fucking, but still feel all this guilt about leaving the temple.

Or, you know, not.