Yesterday, I stopped at Babies R' Us to get Small Bear some more Similac. Pretty much a standard thing for me. The store is in one of those outdoor complex/strip malls. I'm sure you know the type--there's a Kohl's, a Babies R' Us, a Sports Authority and some other shit (I forget.) Anyway, I stopped in at Babies R' Us, grabbed a case of formula and waited in line at the check-out.
From behind me I hear a Marge Simpson-like voice say, "Aw wow, I could fuckin' do jump rope with those things! Hey... HEY!"
I cringed internally as I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I turned to see a mid-40s woman with a beer gut, washed-out blue eyes and very damaged bleach-blonde hair.
"Yes?" I replied.
"Yo, is that really your hair?" she asked incredulously.
"Yes, it is," I answered.
"What are you, from Columbia or something?" she queried.
Puzzled about the possible connection between dreadlocks and a South American country primarily known for things like coffee, cocaine and soccer, I could only muster, "Umm... Columbia?"
"Yeah, I don't know... fuckin' Columbia or something... you're not from HERE, because people from here don't fuckin' do THAT to themselves," she explained.
"Oh, OK," I said. "No, I'm from America. Philadelphia, actually. I don't really know how you came up with Columbia, but no, I'm not from there. The only things I know about Columbia involve running around a lot or the import of illegal narcotics."
At this point, the cashier was openly giggling.
"Well... you SURE you're from here?" she asked.
"Pretty sure," I said. "I'll see you later."
And I got the fuck outta there before things got any weirder.