Sweatered Pricks

            One of those guys approached Rick at the grocery store, again.  Regardless of what season it was, those guys always had sweaters wrapped around their waists.  Rick never understood that choice in apparel, but he also never asked.  For almost a year, though, these guys had been walking up to Rick and crowding him in the grocery store.  They would stare at him, and he would stare at their sweaters, until someone broke their eye contact (usually a hunched-over old woman with ridiculous amounts of cereal in her cart), and then they would part ways.  The regularity with which these sweatered pricks showed up was maddening!  How did they know where he was going every time he went to the store? Even if it was just because he’d forgotten to buy toilet paper the day before, and needed some today, they would be there.

            As this one approached- and he couldn’t tell how many of them there were, they all looked the same with their close-cropped dirty blond hair, polo shirts, and khakis (AND those fucking sweaters!)- Rick decided that today was it.  He had had it up to his nose with these guys, and it was high time figured out the meaning of their shenanigans.  When the guy started staring, Rick threw his double pack of t.p. at him, and ran up behind the projectile, using it as cover.  When the sweatered ass hat batted down Rick’s Charmin, Rick was just a few feet away from him. 

            “Who the blue fuck are you?!” Rick demanded loudly, while trying not to be too loud and create a scene.  It proved to be a difficult balance.

            The sweatered prick never broke his irritating stare as he replied “I’m Rick.”

            “That’s impossible. I’m Rick!” Rick heard himself say, then thought it wasn’t really the most logical thing to take issue with.  “Wait,” He thought about it, and decided to just go with that, to keep from looking too bad, “yeah!”.

            The sweatered Rickposter (Rick+imposter= Rickposter, Rick chuckled to himself) picked up Rick’s Charmin, and handed it back to him.  “I don’t know what this hostility is about, but I can assure you that I am Rick, too. Surely you are not the only Rick in existence.”

            “I’m the only Rick in the county, get the fuck out!  I checked, asshole!”  Rick couldn’t exactly help the fact that he was a pathological liar.  It worked so well most of the time.

            The Rickposter muttered, almost inaudibly, “Shit, he’s onto us, Ricks. Abort, abort.” And he ran out of the store, groceries completely forgotten.