I’m The Guy With All The Pennies Holding You Up In Line

You know me. You come across me all the time, usually at the grocery store in the check-out aisle sandwiched between the chocolate bars and mini bags of Jujubes. And, when you do, that vein on your forehead swells horribly. You also mutter obscenities under your breath, which, by the way, everyone can hear. And for that, I’m so very sorry. I don’t mean to bring out your crazy. I realize that paying with pennies is annoying. It’s just that I can’t cope with all of the pennies in my wallet. So. Many. Fucking. Pennies. Every time I open it, there’s more. Shiny ones. Old ones. Bent ones. Dirty ones. Even Canadian ones with that goddamned maple leaf. What kind of country has a leaf for its national symbol, anyway? Are Canadians really that much into nature? Do they all live in the woods up there?

But back to my pennies. I’m certainly not going to put all them in a massive growler in my house like some people. What would be the point? Because it’s not as if I’ll ever do anything with a massive growler of pennies. I won’t ever lug the thing out of the closet, empty its contents on the floor, get down on my hands and knees, carefully create stacks of 50, and proceed to individually insert each filthy coin into a paper wrapper. I don’t have time for that. I’m much too busy plotting to kill the President. Ha. Ha. I’m kidding. I don’t want to kill the President. That was a joke. But I’m really into World of Warcraft. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to put time aside to roll pennies when I could be playing this kickass game.

Here’s a fun fact about pennies. You’re never more than five feet away from one. I swear it. You could be climbing Mount Everest and, sure as shit, a pile of pennies will be waiting for you at the top. And you’ll be like, “What the fuck? Even here?” And if the pennies could talk, they would say something like, “That’s right, Climber Dude. Previous climbers discarded us while fishing frantically through their parkas for their cameras before their fingers froze off.”

I know what you’re thinking. I should dump all my pennies into one of those coin machines in return for a paper voucher. But here’s the problem with that. THOSE THINGS ARE LOUD! I used one once. Just once. When that giant angry metal box started swallowing my coins, everything turned a turbulent bright orange. I clasped my hands over my ears and felt like that guy in that painting The Scream, which by the way isn’t a Van Gogh. Yeah, I know. Everyone thinks Van Gogh did it but I Googled it after my incident with the coin machine — which involved paramedics — and apparently it was some Norwegian guy I’ve never heard of.

But anyway, those bloody pennies. I mean, what the fuck, right? Why are we still making them? My roommate works for the government. He told me it now costs more to make a penny than it’s actually worth. Wrap that around your mind. So I told him we should melt every copper bastard we can get our hands on and sell the raw materials for a profit. Which I thought was a good idea. But later the police turned up at our door asking about my “penny melting operation.” That day I learned that it’s illegal to destroy money. It’s also now clear my roommate is trying to get rid of me.

So, you see, it’s all very simple. I won’t store my pennies. I won’t throw them out. I won’t exchange them. I won’t destroy them. I won’t do anything with them except spend them. And that’s why I hold you up in line. So calm your tits and deal with it.