So I'm stuck having this exact same conversation over and over:
Customer (putting six-pack of Budweiser on the counter): Is this cold?
Me (Grabbing the beer, which is room-temperature): Yeah, it's chilly as liquid nitorgen.
Customer: It don't feel too damn cold to me.
Me: If you have already felt it for yourself, and determined it's not cold, why did you just ask me?
Customer: My brain is actually located in my rectum. It's a side effect of my sister and my mammaw being the same bitch.
Me: Don't call your mammaw that, Hoss. It ain't none too real respectful-like.
Customer: Aw, dang it. You is right, boy! I feels bad. I wish I was dead.
Me: Hey. Wait. *Were* dead. You wish you *were* dead.
Customer: So um how come this Budweiser is warm as piss, anyhow?
Me: Well, somebody with half a brain might conclude that the beverage cooler is "done busted." But since that's beyond you, I'm gonna say, since it's the official Idiot Nascar beer, and tastes like piss, we decided it's only fair to serve it warm as piss.
Customer: Thanks for learning me about beer. Well, I done put me a seed in Britney Spears's belly, so I best go tend to that.
Me: Enjoy! Oh, and please name it "Dakota."
Customer: Will do, good buddy.
* * *
The great thing about living in the South is, all the people who can't spell "incestuous stereotype," but can spell "play Freebird."
The great thing about working in a gas station is, because I'm the only employee in the store during pretty much my whole shift, and because they're too desperate for help to fire me, I can say and do gol-dang near anything I feel like, and get away with it.