This sign was by the cash register at the UPS Store on Clark Street. I look at the left side—the grumpy take-no-shit dog, the tarantula, those jewels just there, the snake, the mouse riding the dog—and hear a shred-metal electric guitar solo. One of those rasty nasty mathematical guitar solos at full decibel.
An electric solo you willingly suffer permanent hearing loss to, that your sacrifice might please the Gods of Rock.
Look at them. They’re like a cadre of super villains!
The dog’s gaze accuses. Why am I living a life in which I am not attempting to ship these things? What are we all doing? Grumpy Dog asks us.