By sheer right of birth, you are expected to know more about sports than me, and in most cases it is so. But due to my current profession of choice, I spend day after hour-filled day with ESPN in the background. I am bound to absorb some of it. And, different from the rest of my female kind, I totally dig sports. I love watching, cheering, knowing pointless facts, shit-talking and all around sports team love and pride. I know. I am an anomaly.
You, however, are a jerk-face. First of all, thank you for talking to me like I'm some part-time college dropout who only knows how to use the basic functions of a cash register. Also, thank you for pointing out that you, too, would have opened this store if you didn't have other things in life that take up your time. You thought of the idea five years ago. (I am so behind the curve).
I am glad you have heard of every label in my store. And even happier you feel the need to ask me questions, only to cut me off and answer for me. I assume this is so your girlfriend will think you're cool. Also, she isn't even paying attention to our conversation because she hates sports and is checking out the jewelry. Please, speak louder to get her attention.
Also, I appreciate you rubbing your hands all over my Authentic $300 home jersey for the local MLB hero. It's white. You're probably dirty. I am annoyed.
Oh, but it was very nice of you, before you put your aviators on and departed out the door, to shockingly realize that it was my store. It was subtle - "Oh! This is YOUR store?" (he said with ugly face as he couldn't fathom how the part-time girl became the owner). "How old are you?" (he said with even uglier face when he realized I'm not much younger than him).
Dude, you are a fail.
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