So I walk over to the counter and I ask the girl how many calories could I expect to find in one of these here "Super Butt- Jammin' Colon-distendin' Yogurt cookie sandwiches." Now this is basically just a wad of high-cal "premium" yogurt sandwiched between two chocolate-covered cookies. Yup, just like those movies I like. She says she doesn't know.
At this point I had the whole store to myself but rather than take advantage of the situation, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. It was a phone number--1-800-688-TCBY. They have their own info. hotline. Wonderful. So I bought a yogurt sandwich, slipped the girl half a five with my phone number on it (sometimes I am too slick) and got the hell out. Had a call to make.
First, I put on this insanely fake hillbilly accent, for no apparent reason.
"Hello, TCBY"
"Yeah, I've got this here problem."
"Yes"
"Well, it's kind of hard for me to talk about. You see, it's my wife. She had her change of life not long ago and ever since, she been getting these here yeasty infections."
"I see. I don't see how--"
"Well, Dr. Macy, he's the local G.P., he told her that yogurt was good for yeast infections. . ."
"Actually, he's correct. You see, the cultures in the yog--"
Great. She's reading out of some pamphlet and thinks I'll just listen to her spiel then hang up. She's wrong. Dead wrong. "Yeah, I know, he told me all that. Only problem is, the yogurt tastes so damned bad afterwards, you can't hardly eat it. And you sure as hell don't want to be serving it to company. Y'oughta see 'em, pickin' little hairs out the bowl, out their teeth. Me and the wife, we just sit back and laugh. Well, I laugh. The wife can't laugh too hard or she lose her undergarments. Walking ain't something she real good at, neither. But you know, I ain't had so much fun under the covers since, well, well, since I don't know when. Yeah, she some kind a woman. Hello? Hello??"
"Bluurrt-snorrrt-glurrgle"
Yeah, it was shaping up to be a good day.