Shopping With Ones

I hate one-dollar bills. Being a male stripper gives me the honorary privilege of receiving tons of them, which can be quite cumbersome for my pockets. I usually just gather all my ones together and store them in a cabinet, which is tantamount to sweeping dust under the rug where it piles up eventually.

What happens is that I'll have another party where I'll get more ones and have little room left for them. When this happens, I'll either go shopping or change them out at the bank.

Today, I decided to spend all the bills from the past week, which amassed to over three-hundred dollars. I needed some rat-shot rounds for my .38 special for the occasional snake that slithers into my chicken coup, so I stopped at the gun store.

The gun store also had 00 buck shot and .223 rounds in stock, a rarity in these times considering all the gun-ban scare going on, so I asked the white-bearded old man behind the counter for a few boxes of each. The total was almost a hundred dollars. I pulled out my wad of ones and began counting.

"Holy shit, that's a whole lotta ones," the old man said. "Where'd you get all them from?"

A customer next to me, who was looking at the rifles behind the counter, stopped to join in on the conversation. He was a young man in his twenties with a buzz cut, probably in the military. "He must be a male stripper," he said in a joking tone.

If he only knew the truth to his words. I laughed. "Well, if that were the case, I don't think he'd be wantin' to take my money," I said, cocking my head toward to old man.

"Heh heh, probly not!" the old man said, taking my ones and counting them. "But money's money!"

Little did the old man know that half of bills came either from my ass crack or my crotch. If he had that knowledge, then he wouldn't have paused between counting the cash to lick his thumb and finger to moisten them so he could shuffle through the dry bills.

As to where else my money had been, I have little desire to know.