Brighty Mcfartsaalot
Certain words will forever make me laugh. Penis, for instance; say that in front of me and I’m faking a yawn to hide a smirk. The word fart? Forget it, I’m already giggling like a school girl. I don’t know what it is; actually I do - my maturity level is on par with a teenage boy. This affliction only gets worse when I’m hanging out with my sisters or friends and have free range to spend hours laughing over such words.
My sisters and I were in Chicago a few weeks ago and there was no shortage of immaturity. Our parents sent along some money for the occasion; when the four of us get together, they like to treat us to drinks, and since it was Mo’s birthday weekend, they sent along some extra cash. We went out for some Spanish tapas (yum!) followed by dancing at a place Moprobably never goes to unless her tacky, touristy sisters are in town loves. I took lots of cute pictures, and when we were going through them we decided to print out a nice group shot and send it to our parents with a note thanking them for the money. We were window shopping through Mo’s neighborhood on Saturday afternoon so we ducked into a Walgreen’s to print out some pictures.
If you’ve never used the photo-kiosk at your neighborhood pharmacy, you’re really missing out. In college, my friends and I probably spent an hour every Sunday afternoon at the Wal-Mart kiosk laughing over our pictures from the weekend and generally bothering everyone in the photo department. Sarah, Beth and I were going through the pictures while Mo and her friend were picking some stuff up at Macy’s. We had no fewer than three inquiries for the photo attendant, who was in a great mood for spending her Saturday at Walgreens and catering to obnoxious customers like us.
After we selected the pictures and picked the number of prints we wanted, we had to type in basic information like our name and email. Whenever my friends and I would get our pictures printed before, they would print out of the slot immediately, so I didn’t think providing any of this information was necessary. I saw it as an opportunity to dick around and be immature; ya know, a normal Saturday afternoon.
Customer name? Brighty Mcfartsaalot. I was dying when I typed this in, and Beth and Sarah wererolling their eyes laughing, too. After breezing through the rest of the irrelevant questions, a screen popped up asking us when we would like our pictures. The photo associate was at the counter and we asked her about the pictures printing immediately. She assured us they would be right out, then looked at her computer screen and did a double-take, asking us what the name was. I was somewhere between bursting out laughing and dying of embarrassment and knew there was no way I could open my mouth. Beth, who usually ends up covering for me, said with a great poker face “Brighty Mcfartsaalot.” That was all it took for the laughter to start. The employee was smirking and said “That’s what I thought, I just wanted to hear you say it.” Well played.
We were waiting the five minutes for our pictures to print and browsing the $5 DVD bin adjacent to the photo section. “What if she said the name over the microphone?” I said, like a 13-year-old boy, unwilling to let the hilarity of Brighty Mcfartsaalot die. Less than 30 seconds later, a soft, hesitant voice came over the store speaker: “Brighty Mcfartsaalot?” My sisters and I were cracking up and the store associate, a different woman than last time, was halfway between laughing along with us and feeling bad b/c someone might have the unfortunate luck to be given such a terrible last name.
The pictures were in an envelope with the customers’ name on the receipt taped to the front; “Brighty Mcfartsaalot” was printed on ours. Sarah said “I like how you gave him two “A’s” like it could be a real last name. Like he’s Swedish!” The story behind Brighty Mcfartsaalot was just getting started.
Sometimes I think I should grow up and stop being so immature. The rest of the time, I’m too busy laughing at potty humor and continuing the saga of Brighty Mcfartsaalot.
My sisters and I were in Chicago a few weeks ago and there was no shortage of immaturity. Our parents sent along some money for the occasion; when the four of us get together, they like to treat us to drinks, and since it was Mo’s birthday weekend, they sent along some extra cash. We went out for some Spanish tapas (yum!) followed by dancing at a place Mo
If you’ve never used the photo-kiosk at your neighborhood pharmacy, you’re really missing out. In college, my friends and I probably spent an hour every Sunday afternoon at the Wal-Mart kiosk laughing over our pictures from the weekend and generally bothering everyone in the photo department. Sarah, Beth and I were going through the pictures while Mo and her friend were picking some stuff up at Macy’s. We had no fewer than three inquiries for the photo attendant, who was in a great mood for spending her Saturday at Walgreens and catering to obnoxious customers like us.
After we selected the pictures and picked the number of prints we wanted, we had to type in basic information like our name and email. Whenever my friends and I would get our pictures printed before, they would print out of the slot immediately, so I didn’t think providing any of this information was necessary. I saw it as an opportunity to dick around and be immature; ya know, a normal Saturday afternoon.
Customer name? Brighty Mcfartsaalot. I was dying when I typed this in, and Beth and Sarah were
We were waiting the five minutes for our pictures to print and browsing the $5 DVD bin adjacent to the photo section. “What if she said the name over the microphone?” I said, like a 13-year-old boy, unwilling to let the hilarity of Brighty Mcfartsaalot die. Less than 30 seconds later, a soft, hesitant voice came over the store speaker: “Brighty Mcfartsaalot?” My sisters and I were cracking up and the store associate, a different woman than last time, was halfway between laughing along with us and feeling bad b/c someone might have the unfortunate luck to be given such a terrible last name.
The pictures were in an envelope with the customers’ name on the receipt taped to the front; “Brighty Mcfartsaalot” was printed on ours. Sarah said “I like how you gave him two “A’s” like it could be a real last name. Like he’s Swedish!” The story behind Brighty Mcfartsaalot was just getting started.
Who is Brighty Mcfartsaalot, you wonder? Just your typical Walgreens patron of Irish/Swedish ancestry who likes to print pictures.
Sometimes I think I should grow up and stop being so immature. The rest of the time, I’m too busy laughing at potty humor and continuing the saga of Brighty Mcfartsaalot.
Comments
But by the end, I'm laughing so hard that I'm crying!