Have A Day

It's Tower Records in its heyday, back when it was a freestanding building near UNLV, and I'm waiting for the cashier to ring up my sixth copy of Nevermind, my king-size chocolate bar, and my copy of Pierced And Pretty Vol. 8. The cashier is bald, with little round-rimmed glasses and the largest scraggly-red goatee I have ever seen. The backs of his hands have intricate celtic knots tattooed on the back of them, which look like some sort of ribbon-pasta orgy. And then he says it: have a nice day.

It's a phrase that has lost its meaning in the sixteen trillion repetitions the universe has heard ever since the first Neanderthal first bought crude pornographic images on a shard of rock, which I have on full authority is the very first purchase ever made. Now, normally, I'm busy trying to avoid having to talk to people out loud, so I usually just whisper 'thank you' and bolt out of the door.

Not this time. Why only a "nice" day? Why limit it to a single day? Why say this at night? And why was this guy looking at me like I was filet mignon? There had to be a better way to handle this situation. There always is.

"Have a nice day" is a dinosaur. It should sink in the tarpits and die. When closing your conversations, I suggest "May your destiny be fulfilled!". Thunder it out, like a superhero.

And then bolt out the door and get back home. Leave them to savor their future, content in the knowledge that, at your benediction, all the untold riches of tomorrow can be theirs. And meanwhile, you've got porn.