"Oh, I heard you, you wrinkled, flabby bat. I said 'Excuse me,' as a courtesy."
The old woman's eyebrows -- actually, big, smeary pencil lines where eyebrows used to be before they were savagely plucked in an incredibly vain and ridiculous fashion statement made decades ago -- knitted together in one smeary pencil-like blob. "Huh?" she finally said.
You lean into her as if discussing classified information. "I cut one just as you walked up," you confess.
The smeary blobby eyebrows knit again and her eyes widen in horror as the gaseous reminder of your beans and weenie lunch (a special on aisle 16) begins rolling around her like a fog. "Glaphag!" she splutters with her arms flailing around like a trailer park in a tornado.
You stiffen defensively. "I beg your pardon!" you say with a touch of wounded pride.
Wheezing and fumbling with the rusty razor blade she intended to use as a weapon, the old bag tried to move backward, but slammed right into the cart belonging to a fat man immediately behind her. "EXCUSE ME!!" the large man roared indignantly.
The woman reeled in disgust. "Not you too!" she squealed.
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