Underwear

“Do you stock underwear?” I asked the salesman politely.

“You want to invest in underwear, Sir?” asked the salesman courteously.

“It’s the best investment these days,” I remarked.

“Are you planning a short term investment or a long term one, Sir?” asked the salesman smoothly.

“I prefer long underwear with a frill or two,” I explained.

“You want a chequebook too, Sir?”

“I prefer checks,” I said, “but flower patterns will also do as long as I don’t have to water them.”

“We give a free watering can and a garden hose with that line of underwear, Sir,” the salesman said.

“When do the flowers actually bloom?” I asked interestedly.

“That depends on how much you water them, Sir,” the salesman replied.

“Don’t they need fertiliser?” I asked.

“We supply that too, Sir,” the salesman said smiling.

“You give a lot of freebies with underwear,” I remarked.

“You can get some delightful free bees too for the flower patterned underwear, Sir,” the salesman replied.

“Do they sting?” I asked warily.

“They don’t unless you choose the stinging nettle variety, Sir,” he said.

“You have that too, I can gift some to my neighbour,” I said interested.

“Shall I show you some, you will need kid gloves to handle them, Sir,” the salesman said.

“You mean gloves for little children?” I asked surprised.

“Only if you are hand in glove in producing them, Sir,” the salesman said politely.

“I am a bachelor and I can’t produce babies,” I said indignantly.

“You prefer the test tube variety, Sir?” he inquired respectfully.

“I was never an expert and blew up several test tubes and finally the laboratory,” I confessed.

“You must be an explosives expert in flowery underwear then, Sir,” he remarked smiling.

“Just an expert on underwear,” I replied, “I need the underwear before I go to the bank.”

“Are you planning to rob the banks, Sir,” the salesman asked cautiously.

“No merely to withdraw all my money,” I said.

“All of it, Sir?” he asked surprised.

“I am going to invest all my money in underwear,” I confided.

“Long term investment, Sir?”

“Certainly, even Osama bin Laden kept Euros sewed up in his underwear,” I told him informatively, 

“I read it on Facebook.”

“He did not shop here,” the salesman said shaking his head in disapproval, “We don’t sell to terrorists nor sell that line of underwear, Sir.”

“He must have imported them,” I said.

“We give high interest in long-term investment in underwear, Sir,” he said changing the topic.

“I see.”

“We also have good rates for short-term investments in shorts, Sir,” the salesman said.

“Must be the long and short of it,” I mused.

“Put on these kid gloves, Sir, before I show you the stinging nettles variety,” he said.

“Are you sure they have a mean sting?” I asked doubtfully, “my neighbour has a thick hide.”

“You can be assured that they will do their job, Sir,” the salesman said, “our customers who have rhinoceros armour and elephant hides swear by them.”

“You have rhinos and jumbos for customers?” I asked marvelling.

“Satisfaction is our motto, Sir,” he replied.

“My neighbour will be pleasantly surprised when his interior gets nettled,” I said.

“Shall I make your bill, Sir?” he asked.

“Certainly,” I replied, “and be sure to pack the kid gloves.”

“No kidding, Sir,” he said as he handed me my packages.

I walked out and entered the bank next door.

“This is not a holdup,” I told the cashier pleasantly.

“Shall I press the panic button, Sir?” he asked awed.

“You have that?” I asked surprised.

“That’s very necessary, especially during April Fool’s Day, Sir,” the cashier replied.

“Oh!”

“The bank robbers arrive with glue sticks and order us to ‘Stick em up’, Sir,” he said.

“And, you give them the stick?” I asked amused.

“The police give them the dirty end of the stick, Sir,” the cashier replied.

“And, perhaps show them a trick or two?” I questioned.

“They teach them to lick stamps, Sir, before giving them a good licking,” the cashier said.

“Their tongues must work overtime with all the licking they get,” I remarked.

“Yes, they are left tongue in cheek, Sir,” he replied.

“The cheek of it!” I exclaimed, “especially when doing hard labour.”

“Do you have a cheque, Sir?” the cashier asked getting down to business.

“I want to withdraw all my underwear,” I said matter of factly.

“We don’t have your underwear account, but we can open one for you, Sir,” he said.

“Do you have checks?”  I asked.

“We also have the pinstripe if you favour that, Sir,” the cashier said.

“What’s interesting about your underwear account?” I questioned.

“It’s very interesting, Sir, we pay a high-interest rate,” he replied.

“How high is it?” I asked.

“This high, Sir,” he said with his hands two and a half feet from the floor.

“But that must be a dwarf!” I exclaimed.

“We have interesting underwear for everybody, Sir,” he replied.

“You must be supplying circuses then?” I queried.

“Yes, we supply underwear for the all the trapeze artists, Sir,” the cashier said.

“True we get to see their bottom end mostly,” I said shaking my head in agreement.

“Not when they go head over heels, Sir,” the cashier replied.

“They fall head over heels in love?” I asked surprised.

“They love their underwear, Sir,” he said making a point.

“The one with flowers or warts?” I questioned.

“Both, we let them choose freely, Sir,” the cashier said.

“Free love?”

“Totally interest-free, Sir.”

“Like the hippies did in the sixties?” I asked.

“They were the original flower people, Sir, they wore flower patterned underwear when they smoked pot,” he informed.

“Underwear and pot go together, do they not?” I questioned.

“Yes Sir, for those with minds needing a dry cleaning,” he said wryly.

“That reminds me! Do the underwear need to be dry cleaned?” I asked.

“You can give it to the undertaker for dry cleaning, or wash it yourself in the dishwasher, Sir,” the cashier said smoothly.

“I don’t have a dishwasher,” I told him, “the neighbour borrowed it two years ago.”

“Then why don’t you step around to the shop next door Sir, and ask the salesman for underwear with nettles, you can present your neighbour a pair and he will soon return your dishwasher,” the cashier said.

“I already have,” I told him proudly.

“I see you are wearing kid gloves, Sir,” the cashier said observantly, “how are the kids?”

“Bachelors don’t kid,  just as you can’t make a bull produce ice cream,” I said passionately.

“But you can take the cock by the horns and play cock and bull with it, Sir,” the cashier suggested.

“I don’t play much, except the radio and and the vacuum cleaner,” I acknowledged.

“Do you do it in your underwear, Sir?” he asked politely.

“Certainly, I listen to the news in my checked underwear,” I replied.

“You must be plain dotty, Sir,” the cashier said humorously.

“I dot the I’s and cross the T's,” I said informatively.

“That’s like playing a crossword puzzle, Sir,” the cashier said thumbing his nose at me.

“I like puzzles, like where I hid the toothpaste and my socks,” I replied pinching his nose.

“Ow! Sir!”

“That must have stung like a bee and danced like a butterfly,” I said happily.

“The interest rate has just gone down on your underwear stocks, Sir,” he said coldly.

“As high as a dwarf?” I asked.

“You can ask the trapeze artistes that, Sir, when you go to the circus next time with a gas balloon and a lollipop,” he remarked nastily.

“Will that make my interest balloon?” I asked interestedly.

“We don’t pay interest on balloons, Sir,” he snapped.

“What are you interested in then?” I asked.

He went into a short trance and then said brightly, “Girls, Sir!”

“Does your wife know?” I asked craftily.

“What has she to with my interest, Sir?” he asked heatedly.

“She must be interested in where you hide your underwear, socks and dirty toothbrush,” I replied.

“How do you know so much about my wife, Sir?” the cashier asked suspiciously, “Did you meet her on Facebook?”

“No, she follows me on Twitter,” I replied cheerfully.

“Then you must be stalking her in cyberspace, that’s a criminal offence, Sir!” He exclaimed.

“We also exchange stockings during Christmas,” I replied enjoying myself.

“Next you will be speaking about underwear, Sir!” he ejaculated.

“That’s right! I have been shopping for them.”

“Why don’t you keep your nasty underwear to yourself, Sir?”

“I will send the one with the mole on it to you when I go shopping with your wife on eBay,” I said cheerily.

“Don’t you dare take her to any old bay, Sir, I always take her to the Hudson Bay or the Florida Bay,” he said conceitedly.

“Don’t sound like a bulb horn,” I said nastily.

“I’ll play your bulb horn, you old cow,” the cashier replied odiously.

“That’s bull and I’m not a cow,” I said sharply.

“Then I will take you by the horns and play the national anthem with it,” he replied noxiously.

“But you can’t make me stand up,” I said caustically, “even if you play it with a foghorn.”

“Then I will play the church organ like the Pied Piper,” he said, “and take you swimming in the Mediterranean Sea.”

“I don’t swim, but I can sink like a stone,” I said stiffly.

“That’s exactly what I plan to do, put a stone around your neck and sink you in the bathtub,” he said repulsively.

“But that’s where I stock my underwear,” I remonstrated.

“You will go down hook, line and sinker,” he said with an evil laugh.

“I am not like a fish out of water to swallow your sales talk,” I said balefully.

“One swallow does not a summer make,” he said disdainfully.

“I’ll make you swallow your left leg and then dance on your remains,” I remarked hotly.

“I bet you can’t dance,” the cashier said.

“It depends on the tune you play with the tuba,” I remarked.

“I’m a scuba diver and I don’t play the tuba,” he said disdainfully.

“Perhaps you can play the ukelele in your underwear?” I asked, “all cashiers do.”

“That makes me hot under the collar,” he said disgustedly.

“Then you can try cucumbers, they cool you down or you can put your head in the icebox of your fridge, hold your breath and count to a hundred.”

“I do that when I’m in the bathtub while doing yoga,” he said snobbishly.

“You should have an iceberg and the Titanic in your bathtub,” I remarked.

“I already sank the Bismarck,” he said proudly.

“Then you can put all your underwear on a torpedo and fire it at the North Pole,” I said caustically.

“Do the Eskimos wear underwear?” he asked interestedly, “then we can ask them to open their accounts at our bank.”

“You can also ask the penguins in Antartica or the ones hatching their eggs at the equator,” I suggested.

“That’s a lot of customers,” he said happily, “you can’t make an egg without breaking an omelette.”

“Do you drink?” I asked doubtfully.

“Only on duty,” the cashier said sunnily.

“What about at home?”

“I can only suck my thumb because of the missus,” he said suddenly downcast.

“What does she do?”

“She sings ‘Abide With Me’ whenever I hit the bottle,” he said morosely, “and hides all my underwear.”

“You should keep the stinging nettle variety of underwear where she can find them, while you play Amazing Grace on trombone,” I suggested.

“That’s interesting and more than the interest we give,” he said brightening visibly.

“You should have a lot of interests, it will prevent you from getting bored while waiting for the last bus,” I replied with fellow feeling.

“Does the last bus go past pubs?” he asked interestedly.

“At five minutes to midnight,” I replied.

“I will hit the pubs at midnight then,” he said gleefully,” and get pie-eyed.”

“You can also laugh your way to the bank after closing hours and sit on the doorstep and suck your thumb,” I suggested.

“I can’t do that,” he replied, “the security guard might mind and tell my wife, mother-in-law and her grandparents.”

“You can always fire him when you return in the morning,” I countered.

“But he is not a big gun, he can’t be fired without permission from the boss’s wife,” he moaned.

“What has she got to do with guns?” I queried.

“She was in the cavalry and can take potshots with her left hand while playing the French Horn with the right.”

“What does she play?”

“Ba, Ba, Black Sheep.”

“Does she hide your boss’s underwear too?” I asked.

“I never saw my boss in his underwear,” the cashier said glumly, “otherwise I could have asked him for a raise.”

“He must have a hired a bank locker to hide his excess underwear from the income tax people,” I said.

“If they ever caught him, they would take his pants off and search all his innerwear for black money,” the cashier said.

“They should look in his bathtub and his wife’s wig,” I suggested.

“They already did that and only found some false teeth that she was saving up for her old age,” he said dourly.

“Didn’t they find his hoard of underwear?”

“He is clever, he transfers them to offshore companies.”

“Does he also sell seashells by the seashore?” I asked.

“The shells she sells are surely seashells,” he replied.

“Is it a husband and wife venture?”

“No pain, no gain,” the cashier said nodding, “he suffers from gout and her from gas.”

“They should consult a horse doctor and take him for an early morning gallop,” I suggested.

“That should control their diabetes,” the cashier said, “and they should also play polo with him.”

“You mean in their underwear?” I asked aghast.

“They don’t do it actually since the horse kicked up a shindig and told them that he minds.”

“But the horse doesn’t wear underwear, so why should he mind?”

“He actually likes the cart before the horse, when he isn’t wearing underwear,” the cashier said.

“Very bashful chap, how is he in the company of mares?”

“He feels very excited since they told him that he should run for Mayor.”

“Does he do that?”

“Yes, he runs to the Mayor whenever called by him to play polo.”

“Does the Mayor tax underwear?” I asked concerned.

“He does, that is what makes him so unpopular with the people,”  the cashier said.

“Why?”

“He taxes underwear and the prices are going through the roof,” he said.

“Aren’t the people protesting?” I questioned.

“They are doing that in their underwear in the evenings,” the cashier remarked, “to prevent sunburns and heartburn.”

“Does it give them gas?” I enquired.

“That’s what the politicians give for free,” the cashier remarked, “and he also distributes underwear for the needy.”

“Very generous of him to provide gases for the masses and underwear for the unemployed and the nude paintings by Picasso.”

“He holds free health camps for the hoi polloi and nudist camps for the cognoscenti,” the cashier said.

“He must be very popular,” I said.

“He is so popular that he is thinking of sponsoring a beauty contest for underwear in the underworld too,” the cashier informed.

“Oh!”

“But first you must open my underwear account,” I reminded him, “otherwise I can’t go to a nudist camp!”

“Here are the forms, Sir, just fill them up in triplicate at the gas station, get them approved by the fire-brigade and a no objection certificate from the police wive’s welfare association, swear an affidavit before a magistrate, and get a character certificate from any short-sighted baboon at the zoo and you are done,” the cashier said dismissing me.