Afterthought: Drop A Deuce

by Brian Peebles

So I'm in the line at the deli in our office building about three guys behind Skippy the Alpha Marketeer and the rest of his pack when I hear them expounding upon the glories of this past Tuesday night's titty-bar adventures. Some of their tales were real, many more were embellished, and I'm sure at least three of them were out-and-out bullshit, but regardless of the level of truth, the stories had two constants: all of them were skanky, and all of them started with one-dollar bills. I looked in my wallet and suddenly felt the need for a shot of penicillin.

Don't get me wrong - I have no problem with guys paying to see attractive ladies in as little clothing as legally allowable in a public setting. I do have a problem, however, with the thought of cloth paper that has marinated in and soaked up the au jou du skanque of gyrating poledancers being used as the most common means of exchange in this nation - including right frickin' now in my own frickin' hand as I collect and pay for my spicy pepper ranch tuna melt.

Thus I have a dilemma: When a cash purchase involves figures which don't break out evenly in fives, what are my vajuice-free options? Either I carry around a pocketful of quarters like Uncle Jingles, the office building's former caretaker and current child molestation suspect, or have way too many people keep way too much change. There are the new dollar coins, I guess, but that's not much better than the Uncle Jingles option... and the sorry little bastards look like fucking Chuck E. Cheese tokens to begin with. I'd rather not have to persuade the tollbooth asshat that I'm handing him legal tender for all debts public and private, not just rounds of skeeball from an oversized anthropomorphic rat.

Then it hits me... two dollar bills. Shit yeah! They're real money. They look like real money. They spend like real money, albeit with the occasional sideways glance from teenaged cashiers who have only seen the poor things stuffed in birthday cards from their Aunt Frieda in Green Bay. Best of all, the odds that they've ever been within six inches of a sweat-soaked strippercrotch is infinitessimal. From here on out, I fill my wallet with Jeffersons. An occasional trip to the bank is a small price to pay to know that paying for a beer at the game won't put me knuckles-deep in cooze ooze.