I went to a book signing and met David Sedaris today, and I gave him a bunch of BSP.com business cards!

So, if David Sedaris makes his way to this site, welcome! And don't forget to pass out those cards!

I'm afraid I cannot quite change the names to protect the innocent...

It was during a rather slow buy shift when an average customer approached with some average books to sell. Before we start a buy, we take down the customer's first and last name and their driver's license number. As I wrote down her information, I noticed that her last name was the infinitive of the French verb "to shit." I figured that she must know this, and I imagined she was used to a fair amout of good-natured ribbing over it--like a girl I knew in high school whose last name was German slang for "to copulate".

So, I asked, "Have you ever been to France?"

She said, "My husband and I spent a week in Paris but it was pretty awful, we really didn't enjoy ourselves." After a moment, "Why do you ask?"

"Well, your last name is kind of a rude word in French, I wondered if anyone had ever mentioned it."

She laughed a little and said she didn't like the French much. The rest of the transaction went along quite normally--she was happy with her offer, bought a few things and left the store. I told some other employees about it, but no one thought it was nearly as funny as I did.

But wait!

Not twenty minutes later, an actual Frenchwoman walked in and asked me where the poetry section was. I can tell you, French people are not often to be found in this particular suburb. After showing her to the section, I told her all about it and we had a rollicking laugh.

There's not too much to this story, it's pretty straight forward.

I walked into the women's restroom and saw a bunch of toilet paper in the corner. Thank goodness, my Poop Sensor went off, and I didn't just pick it up. I went and got The Gloves and sifted through the toilet paper, and lo and behold, it was a trick. Someone pooped in the corner of the bathroom, then covered it with toilet paper, as if setting a trap.

The best parts of this story were the reactions of my co-workers.

My manager went into a scenario of the circumstances that caused someone to set a Poop Trap. They didn't like their buy offer, so they thought, "I'll get them". Then they went and pooped in the corner. Then they went home and told their friends and family that they got screwed over by Half Price Books and their low buy offers, but not to worry, they got revenge. Their friends and family ask "Wow, how'd you do that?" and then the person is forced to admit that they popped a squat, dropped trow and pooped in the corner. No longer the superhero who got back at HPB, they are now the freak who poops in corners.

My co-worker said this:

"That's what you get for saying BSP needs stories. You summoned corner poop."

It was so surreal. It was so like a dream, like a dream after reading Philip K. Dick on codiene. I had to write it down before I forgot it....

At one o'clock, I was on my way to the buy counter. I took a route down the central aisle, just casually checking the displays. It was right at the central point of the store--left at the crossroads like a suicide, a blasphemous carcass, unholy and untouchable. It was about a third of a hamburger patty with cheese. I got some paper towels and picked it up, but I didn't show it to anyone. The way it had lain there, right out in the open but totally ignored by everyone else, it evoked in me a strange pity. I buried it in the trash can, quickly but respectfully, and went on to my buy shift. I didn't stop until later to wonder where it could have come from--the life it made, the choices that led to its grotesque and public demise. All I can know for sure is that the rest of that patty, somewhere, is poop.

By the way, I am the coworker that Brooke mentioned...I found the terdlets in the YA section. Three curious hard little pinch-shaped terdlets behind three different shelves. I found another one weeks later rattling around near the cash registers.

I smelled him before I saw him. I was shelving one quiet afternoon in a section near the buy-counter--I assume we all know what that is by now--when the Hi-Ho Viking first appeared. He had on baggy black pants with thin red stripes, a poofy 'blouse' in two inch wide black and white stripes, a large floppy black hat with an emu feather, tall black boots, and some sort of studded leather harness, with "HI-HO VIKING" spelled out across his back. Of course he also had long grisled hair and full beard. He approached the buy counter with a jaunty step. He carried--and by 'carry,' I mean he had both arms wrapped around it and it was in full-contact with his torso--a small sized moving box with the top flaps folded in. As he slid the box onto the counter, we could see that it was entirely covered with bird poop on all sides. It was a Jackson Pollock of bird poop. As the buyer began to sort through the contents, forensic evidence led to the discovery that the books had been put in the box AFTER it was pooped upon. The buyer decided that we would not be able to sell any of the contents of the box. The buyer called the HHV back to the counter to say that we, regrettably, could not offer him anything for his books, but that we could donate them if he didn't want them. In a kindly and socially-conscious way, the HHV agreed that it would be best to donate the old books. He turned to go and the buyer asked--whether it was out of habit or out of derision, we will never know--"Did you want to keep your box?"

The Viking said, "No."