goutman cometh

Browsing through the googleberries in my feminist cousin Pauline's health food shop.
The store is the abode of pseuds and trendies.
But today I'm here too.
A gentle faced somewhat hoity toity lady reeking of cash enters stage left.
"Do you accept Laser?" she enquires of Pauline who is holding court behind the counter.
Just goes to show.
I thought I smelled cash but actually she hasn't got any.
Laser is a bankcard provided by the collapsed vampire bank AIB.
My cousin apologises.
"I'm sorry we don't accept bankcards," she says. "But there is a bank machine just around the corner."
Before the lady can leave, I pipe up.
"Just once I'd like someone to ask you to accept Laser," quoth me to Pauline, "and for you to say no, and for the person to pull out a laser gun and zap you."
The feminist cousin and the hoity toity lady exude quizzicality.
There are no signs of any larfs.
I try again.
"I mean if you were Darth Vader," quoth me to the gentle faced lady, "and you came in all breath mask and black cloak and dark side of the force. And you said: Do you accept Laser? I know full well Pauline would give you any healthy vegetables you want and then some."
The lady exits still unsmiling.
Pauline favours me with a stare.
It's not her friendly one.
It is the stare developed by the feminist movement in their top secret research laboratory at Los Alamos.
I think it's illegal under the Geneva Convention and United Nations protocols.
Saddam Hussein had a few of them in storage but the Russians helped him hide them in Syria before the cavalry arrived.
Anyhoo.
Preferring life to being stared to death, I decide to leave.
Discretion is the better part of valour.
My regal preraphaelite features are a mask as I exit.
But once outside I am smiling like the cat that got the fembos.
Peace now.
Justice always.
Goutman forever.