[ A Preface That Must Be Told. ]

Look at that DMD over there to the right.
Just bein’ itself.
Sweatin’.

I am simultaneously typing this post and applauding it’s existence.  That’s just how serious I am about the events that are about to unfold.

It must be said that my love affair with this sweet nectar of life is unbridled for the following reasons:
1. Diet Mountain Dew satisfies the quench in ways no other beverage before it could ever aspire to hold a candle to.
2. No calories.
3. Sweetness content = justright.
4. Gas-in-stomach ratio post drinkage?  Nunya. (Other diet carbo bevvies make my stomach blow up to Santa-like proportions)

Conclusion?  Fandom for life.

[ This Is The Point. ]

So bethatasitmay, I couldn’t help but notice the contents of the older gentleman’s cart behind me in line at HEB.  Normally, I wouldn’t be so bold as to comment as I am of the shy breed and apologize to you for my foot being in the wrong place if you, dear Reader, were to step on it.

But the kindredshippiness of the similarities were entirely too much to ignore.

He, too, a follower of The Diet Dew as his cart humbly and gloriously contained two lone twelve packs. The very same exact samey same thing as I was purchasing.  The rarity of this coincidence struck a chord as words began to fall out of my mouth.

“Good stuff, ” I pointed and nodded at my Diet Mountain Dew.

Who was this person speaking?
Where are these words coming from?
Have I unknowingly become the annoying jingly change pocket stranger that speaks to randoms in public?

“Incredible.”  His eyes seemed to stay in one place as his head slowly moved from side to side. The seriousness in his face let me know his love affair with The Diet Dew was just as intense as mine.

“You know, I could drink a twelve pack of this in one day,” my credit card slid seamlessly through the machine.

“Easily.”  We unisoned.  Both sets of hands slicing the air as if we were mirror images. And then we froze.

Ok.
That was weird.

The Mister: I decided I’m going to get a tattoo.
Me: Oh yeah?
The Mister: On my shoulder.
Me: Hmm. Okay. What is it going to be?
The Mister: A potato chip.
Me: (blank stare, eventual light bulb)
In Unison: Chip on your shoulder.

Ba dum ching!

The Mister? A lyrics connoisseur. He is infamous in 3 counties for his ridiculously impressive talent of reciting a song, word for word, after hearing it only once.

Me: What’s that Metallica song called?
The Mister: (heavy sigh – he despises Metallica) Aww, Baby…
Me: I feel like I should bust out my ol’ combat boots and flannel with a fist pump. It’s the one with the dramatic pause. The chorus goes, ‘You know it’s sad patrooooool‘.
The Mister: What?
Me: Sad patro-hooool-uh!
The Mister: Wait. (pause) Did you just say…
Me: What?
The Mister: It’s “Sad But True”.
Me: No, no, no. ‘You know it’s sad patroooooool!’
The Mister: Nope.
Me: What? (pause) Oh.
The Mister: (silence)
Me: Wow. That makes so much more sense.
The Mister: Yep.
Me: So I can no longer taunt you for ‘Jeremy’s Broken Glass Today’?
The Mister: Nope.
Me: I need at least 5 to 10 minutes to process this.