On Friday, my parents ordered dinner from Riccotti’s, a sub sandwich shop that’s somewhat of a legacy in my town even though the
food is gross and the guy who runs the joint looks like Emilio Estevez in Men at Work. Keep in mind the rule of my house is my brother and I have to do all the
grunt work (and that includes answering the phone—which my parents haven’t done since 1987—getting dad a beer, putting the dog out AND cleaning her shit,
and yes, picking up dinner). It’s probably the same in your house, too. Business majors, design a flow chart for the productivity of your parents since you got your driver’s
license, I guarantee it looks like a cross between Enron and the Patriots’ secondary.

"What is wrong with these kids? When I was in high school, I had common sense. I’ll tell you what the problem is. Fucking rap
music."

So anyway, dad gives me $40 to go get the food. Since I was battling AIDS (and by AIDS, I mean a stuffy nose) I mumbled something
incoherent and stuffed the money in my pocket, above the wallet. Yes, I’m aware that defies the very point of owning a wallet, but I digress. I just never find time to
take my wallet out, open it, stare at the gorgeous chick I went to prom with, cry about my lack of money, wonder why I carry my Social Security card, and place the loot inside.
The people who really fascinate me are the ones who carry money clips. Who has the time? And where does your change go? I have enough change in my wallet to feed that fat
psycho braud on Meet Your New Mommy! Remarkable.



Anyway, on my way out, my mom asks me to go to Brooks to buy some milk (again, the driver's license principle). To set the stage, foreshadow if you will, I’ll explain
to non-New Englanders that Brooks Pharmacy is like CVS for retards. Since CVS is already stuffed to the gills with retards, it should allow that Brooks employees rank
intellectually somewhere between taint sweat and that poop that gets stuck on the shallow end of your toilet and just stays for months and months until it mutates into
something that could host Christmas specials. Cringe if you must, this is important knowledge to have for the rest of the story.



So I go to Brooks, buy the milk, and walk out. Then I get in the car, and realize something. The forty bucks is missing. Frantically, I check all twelve of my pockets. Yes,
twelve, because when you live in the city, you need weapons. I drive home, thinking I surely must have dropped it, or maybe dad didn’t give it to me. Nope. Nothing. So
I drive back to Brooks...



Remember my Linksys column a few months back where I
got so angry I actually cried because I couldn’t believe God would allow so much contained bullshit over such a short period of time to occur to one person? Ok. Keep
that in mind for the following.



I go to Brooks, head up to the kid at the counter. I’m not saying he’s Puerto Rican, he could just be Italian and fell asleep next to the radiator, I don’t
know. I ask, “Have you seen my forty dollars?”



He looks at me like people must look at John Travolta when he tells them Battlefield Earth was a labor of love.

I explain further. “I came in here before with forty dollars, I’m not sure if I dropped it or not.”



Paco looks at his Brooks brethren, one kid who looks like he owns a lot of shit from Hot Topic. I mean, a lot of shit. Not so much because he likes the clothes. Just
because he’s a fag. Next to him is one of those fat chicks whose only guy friends are gay. There’s nothing wrong with being gay, I just hate all those fat
chicks who only associate with gay guys. It’s like God’s Forgotten Corner.



Hot Topic then explained the situation to me, and I’ll allow his words here because nothing I say could possibly do justice.



“Yeah man, some old lady saw the money on the ground. She said she found forty dollars. I said ‘cool.’ She left.”



Now. Welcome to Justin’s Big Game of Morality. Suppose you’re a 16-year-old resident of Rumford, Rhode Island, mom and dad still pay for pretty much
everything, you smoke weed on weekends because why not, and you work a shitass job at a lousy convenience store that actually tries to bilk people into dropping $15 bucks
on a Rumford t-shirt, like Rumford is the tourism capital of America.



Some old bitch tells you she found 40 bones on the floor, do you:



A) Say, “Ahh some customer probably dropped it, let me keep it behind the counter in case they come back.”

B) Do A.

C) Do A and B.

D) Say, “Cool.” And let her walk out.



If you answered A, B, or C. Congratulations, you’re a human being. If you answered D, drink some cyanide, and when you head off to Stupid People Heaven, tell them Justin sent you.



So what the fuck? All this kid had to do was take the money until poor Justin came back. Instead he said, “Cool,” then half-laughed at me for being concerned
over my missing $40. What is wrong with these kids? When I was in high school, I had common sense. I’ll tell you what the problem is. Fucking rap music.



There’s another dynamic at work here: that old thief bitch.



I’ve really had it with old people. They walk around like they are the cat’s meow. They can’t drive. They think they own the supermarket. One time, this
old lady got on the train as I was sitting down. Before I could offer my seat, she tells me to move. Doesn’t ASK me. TELLS me. Like she owns the train. I wish she
had a rolling dialysis machine, I’d take it for a spin down a fucking canyon.



The tragic ending: I ended up paying for dinner with my own money. My parents, angels that they are, told me not to worry, they’d take care of it. But I, unlike Hot
Topic, Old Thief Bitch, and the entire employment chain of Brooks Pharmacy have a soul and embrace morality.



So here’s what I’ve decided. From now on, I don’t do anything for anyone under 18 or over 70. Except for my grandparents and my little cousins who
don’t have that high-pitched cry—everyone else can go screw.



And as for Brooks Pharmacy, I am initiating a letter-writing campaign to get Hot Topic fired and my forty bucks back. Unbelievable.

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