It’s here. It’s really, really here. The day you never thought would come. Everyone laughed at you. They all said it would never happen. But you knew. You had faith. You believed. And now that it’s happening, it almost doesn’t seem real.
New Kids on the Block has reunited and put out a new album!
You need it. You crave it. If you don’t obtain it immediately at the crack of dawn on the day it’s released, you’ll never be able to look in the mirror again. So you wake up at 6:00am, throw on some clothes (no time for tooth-brushing!) and grab your wallet.
But…the wallet is feeling a little, well, light. You tear it open, nearly ripping the stitching in your haste, only to discover that the contents within are not quite as you remember. Sure, you stayed out late at the bar last night, and sure, you had a few beers, and sure, you can’t quite remember how you got home or what happened to your pants or why the word “Cheerio” is tattooed on your inner thigh, but surely you didn’t spend every last dollar? Surely there must be something left?
Alas, no. Your drunken hijinks have undone you once again. But that album needs to be purchased. Your auditory canals will shrivel and die without it. Your credit cards have been canceled, something about a “final notice”, so you begin to tear apart your room looking for change. You begin with your laundry fund, wincing as you stuff the stack of quarters into your pocket. Those jello stains will just have to wait. You move on to the rusty coffee tin that serves as your piggy bank – about three dollars worth of coinage in there. Not bad, but still not enough. You becoming anxious now, desperate, clawing at the furniture and sticking your hands into places that no man or beast has ever dared to go. How about under the refrigerator? Feeling around produces 58 cents, and a jagged and mysterious laceration to the finger. What about the VCR? No harm in looking. Could there possibly be money in the garbage disposal? Only one way to find out.
Eventually, miraculously, you scrounge up enough to purchase a quality American-made compact disc. Now, unfortunately, you must suffer the embarrassment of actually paying with such currency. You head over to the store, marvel at the absence of a line out the door and around the block, and retrieve the album. Kissing it all the way, you waddle to the counter, your pans jingling and sagging with the heavy loads no pocket was ever meant to carry. You get to the cashier, give her a sheepish look, and dig deep. Grabbing fistfuls of crusty, greasy, possibly deadly coins, you slam them down upon the counter, where they clank and clatter and spill over the sides onto the floor. This poor girl is already miserable enough as it is, working in retail, hating every second of her life, and here you come with your little bacteria magnets, demanding that she count them out and handle each and every one of them. She’ll probably die of meningitis now. Well done, you.
So if you want to suck at life, pay in change. Not only will you rid your house of dangerous choking hazards for the brats that you will one day accidentally produce, but your steadfast ignorance of the existence of Coinstar will provide you with the simple arithmetic exercises that your otherwise atrophied brain so sorely needs.