In general

I needed my suit dry-cleaned this morning. Tonight, I am attending a black-tie preferred event, and my one bit of formal wear’s gotta look spiffy. Tonight, my rumpled Gary Leeman pajamas (Flames, not Leafs, duh) simply don’t cut it. So off I was, expecting to find a full-serve dry cleanery with the capes (ability) to wash and clean my 3 piece Calvin Klien (not a typo, but a knock-off) of the cat-hair it has accumulated since its last scrubbing. But no, in my 17 minute walk to work, roughly 1.5 miles of Toronto’s most densely populated commercial strip, not a single dry cleaner. I decided to venture underground, where it’s more smoke shops and beef patties, than the above ground fare of Louis Vuitton, and other rich dick vendors. It’s here where I found the reliable dry-cleaner that I had been seeking. Much to my chagrin (a stupid saying if I’ve ever heard one), the shopkeep had stepped out. In lieu, a sign saying he’d be back in 5. Five minutes later, at 10am, I returned and inquired about their same day service. The cleaner, who I presume runs the place, tells me that my request for same-day has to be filed before 10, thus he will not be able to have my suit ready until the next morning. Aw zoodles! His exact words were a little less flowery: “no, no, you go, impossible, time bad”. Off to the next dry cleaner. This time, the lady-shopkeep said that they can’t have it ready by day’s end, so I asked if she knew of another place that could get it done. Without any sense of irony or sarcasm, this was our exchange:

Me: Do you know of a place that can get this done?

Her: Yes, behind building. There. (she didn’t point in any direction)

Me: Ok, um, where again?

Her: You go there.

Me: Where?

Her: Yes, right there.

Me: Ok, I’ll go to there. Thanks.

And this proves my point that I can blog about anything and you will read it. Sucker.


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