Hard-boiled private eye

Our place in the universe is easily filled by bare minimum wage workers, by which I am referring to people making the pathetic Minimum Wage, and not to naked Kroger deli counter workers. That would be even more troubling than the lack of plastic lids with SKEW labels at the olive bar. I had to go over to the sushi kiosk and request assistance.

Sushi Guy and I peeled the packing tape off a carton of lids inside the gourmet cheese/olive kiosk, but the Guy had overstepped his grocery national boundaries. As I wheeled my cart away it seemed the returning cheese worker and the sushi invader might have a nuclear situation.

Why isn't the sum of brats + dogs equal to the number of buns, which we will call (z + y) equals not x?

Why did I bolt wide awake at 12:26 a.m. from a nightmare of the coffee table in the nonfiction reading room ablaze?

Why do book clubs select books about preparing for death or depressing WWII fiction?  This is not my question, but that of of library patron.

Why is the retired engineer checking out Descartes to Nietzsche and Piketty's Capital? After the usual jokes about curing insomnia and using tomes for doorstops we ponder life's persistent questions at the circulation desk.

Our place in the universe is a tiny intersection between physics and jazz improvisation where hard-boiled eggs and pitted black olives intersect in a Venn diagram. Pluto was so depressed about losing planet status it vaporized all the green Readers' Guides to Periodical Literature in the Periodicals room. The newest library staff member has never even heard of the Readers' Guide.

© 2013-2016 Nancy L. Ruder

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