Then I remember:
* * *
The convenience store I work at has decided to stop opening packs of cigars and selling them one at a time. You want a cigar? You'll have to somehow manage to scrape up a whole three dollars. The local wigger community is, of course, enraged.
I have this conversation a ba-jillion times a night:
"Yaw, dawg, ah wan buy one dem cigarillos."
"We no longer sell single cigars."
"WE NO LONGER SELL SINGLE CIGARS. WORD TO YOUR MOTHER."
"Aw, shit, dawg, I ain't got no money fo' no whole pack."
"Yes, you'd have to be a Trump, wouldn't you?"
"How come you don't sell no mo' dem singles?"
"We discovered it was attracting an unfavorable element."
"Do whu? Who?"
"Mainly broke-ass stoner children who come in here babbling in some incoherent, psuedo-eubonics-style speech, haven't got the sense to pull up their pants, waste our time with fake I.D.s that list their addresses as COMPTON, GEORGIA, and reek up our bathrooms with the stench of 'kine bud' and 'inspired by CK one.'"
"Damn! You know what? I wish I was dead."
"*Were* dead. You wish you *were* dead."
"Aw, shit. Good grammar be important, yo!"
"True dat, home slice."