It was entirely too perfect to walk into the comic store this morning to witness on of the regular crew of cliché-ridden clerks earnestly singing along to Radiohead’s Creep.
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Ragtag grab-bag
It was entirely too perfect to walk into the comic store this morning to witness on of the regular crew of cliché-ridden clerks earnestly singing along to Radiohead’s Creep.
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In Kansas City, there was a really buff guy who worked at the comic book store. He had Buddy Holly glasses, short or shaved hair, and forarms I coveted… Friends and I nick-named him “Pop-eye”.
Every Wednesday our favorite local shop is visited by this stinky crazy Afro’d white man in his 40s named Jeff.
He always looks like he hasn’t bathed in a week, and his clothes have the same raggedy, dirty look. He talks to EVERYONE even if you ignore him.
Generally, he’s just annoying, but his speech and mannerisms are those of an insane person — combine that with the fact that he kind of has Charlie Manson’s features leads to his nickname of Manson.
He wants to talk to everyone about everything, and proves he’s an authority on nothing but his precious cards. He’ll spend hours in there annoying customers every Wednesday. I’ve known people who’ve never stepped foot back in that store after an encounter with him.
If ever there was a comic-shop Creep, it’s him.