Trouble at your Bakery?

"You stride your swiveling reverse trouser muffins up to that counter (the thundering un-sashay of your steps should make your buns look like an angry gnome swinging a pillowcase full of moist loam over his head), slap that doodley-whatsit down thereupon with the intensity of the first man to discover the gustatory elation from ingesting a whole goat (hooves be damned...but only after a dusting of powdered sugar and a spanking from the Apiary Goo Wand), stare menacingly into the neckware and/or upper-apron-area of Mister Oh-Lah-Dee-Dough-Kneading Bakery Shop Owning Biscuit and you say--you say--

I have punched my way out of a meat locker, swallowed whole more unstomped grapes than the most mentally Ill Italian, shat quantities of waste that would put to shame the collective excrement of every effin' Woolly Mammoth that ever squatted over a rift in the Snow Pack EVER...and you have the audacity to call this prospective purchase of mine RYE? You'd sell THIS to me? Did I mention my tremendous Excretory Output? I'd rather gnaw on the end of a bannister WITHOUT EVEN APPLYING BUTTER TO IT FIRST with your mouth than bring this home to my five legitimate children and the tagalong and deal with their Post-Alleged-Loave Cacophony of Woe.

That's what ya gotta do to get the respect of your baker...and sometimes the folk at the DMV."

T