How do you know my name?

Arizona Tea

2:35 a.m.: Two drunk women, a blonde and a brunette (this is important), stroll the aisles looking for snack food.

The brunette stops in front of the cold drink coolers and stares. I ask if I can help her find something.

"My friend in the car wants a pina colada," she states. "Not one with alcohol, I know I'm not in a bar."

"Well, we have an entire wall devoted to cold drinks, can you help me narrow it down a bit."

"Shit! I don't know," she says. "I'll call him."

A minute or two later, I'm on the other side of the store when she announces, "Brian, I found it. See? Penis colada."

I walk over to take a look. "It does not say penis colada."

"Yes, it does. Right there. Penis colada."

Fine. It's not productive to argue with a drunk customer.

Moments later, she and her blonde friend are at the checkout.

"Ring up my penis colada," the brunette says loudly, thinking it's just the funniest thing in the world.

"It does not say penis colada," the blonde says.

"See," I tell the brunette.

"So, you're siding with her? You're going with the blonde, eh? You like blondes, Brian?"

"No," I answer, willing to play the game since there was no one else in line. "I like gingers."

The expression on her face suddenly changes.

"How do you know my name?" the brunette asks, incredulous. "Are you a psychic?" Then spins to the blonde, "You told him my name!?"

Peppered with assault

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"Then I started hitting her," the young woman relates over her cell phone. Everyone in the store overhears.

"She pulled my hair, so I grabbed a bunch of her hair and pulled her down to the floor. Then I got on top of her and started hitting her over and over again.

"It was awesome."

No. It was assault.