"It has a green tag!" Today I went to the thrift store to begin stocking my warm weather wardrobe. I go to the thrift store because I am a fucking clothes fanatic now that I'm tiny, and love nothing more than finding small, cute (I know, redundant) pieces for $2-$5 apiece. I wade through aisle after aisle of mostly tarps, parachutes, and tents, enjoying a thrill of success when the occasional human-sized garment pops up. After almost two hours of browsing I am ready to wrap things up for the day so I can get home and enjoy the generous 460 calories I have remaining for the evening.  I arrive at the checkout laden with a wonderful assortment of goodies and realize that the clerk is a big fat fatty fat with pale dumpling flesh oozing out its too-tight ketchup-stained lime green shirt, beady eyes, long greasy hair, body odor, yellow teeth, Twinkie breath, and emitting a constant low level wheeze due to the exertion of ringing up garments. It's in the typical foul mood anyone would be who woke up that morning immobilized by mounds of fat, and I can tell it is anything but happy about the prospect of ringing up its next customer -- me. Fatty: (holds up the very first shirt from my stack and studies it like it's an insect wriggling under a microscope) "Well THIS... this is..." (hollers over to trim co-worker) "Claire!!?? It has a green tag!! trim co-worker Claire: (immediately exasperated as if she's been dealing with Fatty all day and just wants to go home, shower, and toke into oblivion) "OK Sheila...AND...?* Fatty: "Well what am I supposed to do NOW?" It stops in its tracks and sighs. trim co-worker Claire: "Well it's been half-off green tags all day, I hope you've been ringing things up correctly!"* Even though I'm not sure yet what the problem is, I smirk in sympathy to trim co-worker Claire. I'm already tired of Fatty and I just met it; can't imagine having to share my workday with it. Fatty: (sputters indignantly) "Yeah I know that, but why is this thing green-tagged?"  trim co-worker Claire: (clearly out of patience) "IT'S A WOMAN'S SHIRT, WOMENS IS HALF OFF TODAY, RING IT UP LIKE YOU'VE HOPEFULLY BEEN DOING ALL DAY!" Fatty: (looks all pouty and butthurt) "For your information it is a GIRLS shirt -- SEE????" (holds it up triumphantly)  "So why is it green-tagged?" I make my move. Me: (breezily) "Oh, it's a woman's -- I got it right over there and it fits perfectly. So adorable, I love it, don't you?" Fatty: "Hmph. Well..." It scrutinizes the shirt again and just can't seem to wrap its head around it being purchased for a full-grown adult whom it fits just fine. By now it's rubbed its grubby beetus mitts all over it and I'm beginning to change my mind about buying it because ewwwww..... but I hang in there because by now I just want this shit to be done with. The stench gets stronger by the minute and that veggie lasagne isn't going to eat itself. Me: (cheerfully) "I guess it can be hard to tell with some of the smaller sizes, they are hard to find in thrift stores and it can take me forever to find things that fit. You probably don/t see them very often is all. But yeah, it's a womens." Fatty glares at me and its lips curl in contempt. It continues ringing up the rest of my items without comment, grabbing each piece angrily and thrusting it into the bag with no attempt at all to fold like it's supposed to do. Me: "Oh by the way, when are the kids' clothes green-tagged? I need a new belt and couldn't find any that fit today in the womens section." Fatty: (icily) "Tuesdays. NEXT CUSTOMER!" I went home happy with my purchases, and shall soon drift off while visions of future shitlording dance in my head.