glenn

So I’m at Barnes and Noble. 

I am look­ing for a spe­cif­ic book,
but they don’t have it in,
so I de­cide to buy a sec­ond one to oc­cu­py me while it ships. 

It’s dense and has a TON of information,
and there’s no price list­ed on it.
I scour,
be­fore ul­ti­mate­ly ac­cept­ing that it will be over­priced but worth it.

When it turns out to be $44, I startle,
but laugh,
“no won­der the price isn’t listed.”

The cashier,
a six­ty some­thing year old white man prob­a­bly named Glenn,
responds,
sweet­ly but in a pas­sive-ag­gres­sive mumble,
“you should try check­ing the back.”

So while he han­dled my tender,
I re-searched the back of the book. 

I even opened the book to search the in­side cov­er of the back of the book. 

See,
for some reason,
beat­ing mansplain­ers to death with the book they just mansplained at you is still a crime,
so fight­ing fire with pas­sive ag­gres­sive fire is all I got.

Fuckin Glenn,
man.
 
 

—mel­ony ppenosyne

Flom­mist Mel­ony Ppenosyne is a writer and weird artist type. In the last year alone, she’s trav­eled to Vir­ginia as a com­pet­ing poet, co-writ­ten a play on men­tal ill­ness that is present­ly be­ing pro­duced, and craft­ed a pub­lished es­say check­ing the priv­i­lege and scope of art gal­leries. Copy­right © 2018 Mel­ony Ppenosyne.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

READ SOME  RELATED  DER TUNG  POSTS  :

el­e­va­tor crush mansplain­ing amer­i­can labels dat­ing fab­u­lous­flomm­ness eye test the mon­ster in the dark an open let­ter to the newest mem­ber of the club