May Kinko's burns in hell.

When my errands consist of not having to plead with, scream at, and consequently sexually proposition the incompetent assholes at Kinko’s in order for them to print something, I get to go do fun things like hang out at the kibbutz they call B&H electronics.

It’s this huge electronic store akin to Disneyland for the huge nerd or Drexel engineer. Floor upon floor of anything you could ever desire short of an animatronic pony or social graces. It’s also almost completely run by Hasidic Jews, which is thoroughly amusing because it reminds me of my hometown on Shabbat. It's almost impossible to drive through the streets when they have taken over like an overdressed gang. Granted they’re very nice people, and judging by my nose and hair immediately recognize me as one of their own and try to help me. Regardless of how sullen I seem to be looking that day.

On Monday everything was well and good in there, and I gratefully accepted a handful of Israeli candies to supplement my steady diet of bagels and disillusionment while waiting in line for customer service.

It was at this point the cashier, dressed in full Orthodox garb from his yarmulka to heavy beard, magically pulled a customers credit card and wad of cash from under the box he was disposing of. The customer was overjoyed with the cashier and thanked him profusely. The cashier assured him it was nothing, and that “he was good at finding money.” It took everything within me not to double over laughing, but then again I am already going to hell.

The only thing more amusing than stereotypes are how people try and pretend they aren’t true. Like when they glued quarters to the floor of my high school cafeteria. I’m pretty sure the Mexican principal was the only person to not try and pry it off the floor in hopes of purchasing 1/3 of a cookie they forced the retarded children to bake. But in retrospect he was probably wasted.

Monday I was also fortunate enough to attend the opening night of the US Open because my boss is awesome. Emilie and I got there a tad late because of the bastard they call public transportation, but we were able to see the game from about 8:15 onward. Watching it from the Lacoste luxury box that contained the magic they call air conditioning didn’t hurt either. However, as much as I dislike competitive sports (except when I was flipping off other swimmers underwater during races) this was actually an amazing game and I got to see Venus and Federer win. There were also an astonishing amount of attractive men there as well, so the people watching was just as entertaining as the game itself.

It had been awhile since I had forced myself to remember the rules of the game. More or less since that summer I went to tennis camp and got attacked by a garden snake. There isn't much I remember from camp, besides trying to pull the huge reptile off of my arm and hitting on my instructor. I'm sure he enjoyed being harassed by a ten year old.