The blathering idiot darts up to a stocking clerk in a grocery store.
“You’re Spotted Dick, where is it?”
The male stocking clerk looks at him. “Come again?”
“Your Spotted Dick,” the blathering idiot said. “I need your Spotted Dick.”
“But I don’t have one.”
“One? One what?”
“Spotted dick, sir.”
“But you’ve advertised that you do.”
The clerk’s face turns red.
“I have not!”
“Yes, you have.”
“No I haven’t!”
“Yes, you have advertised that you have Spotted Dick.”
The clerk blushes. “That’s not what I advertised, sir.”
The blathering idiot stops, looks at the young man, a couple of small clusters of acne on his check and chin, and slowly realizes he may have been misunderstood.
He spots another clerk. This time a woman. He walks up to her. “Have you Spotted Dick?”
“Have you tried aisle nine?” she says and then quickly walks away.
Canned Spotted Dick; find it at your local grocery store. Just be careful whom you ask.
“Thank you.” The blathering idiot walks over to aisle nine. It is an aisle of coffee and tea and some drinks in pouches, but there is no Spotted Dick. He stomps up and down the aisle twice and is about the curse this store, the earth, even the universe itself when a woman walks by, Spotted Dick in her cart, near the top, the name in plain view.
His face lights up. He points at the can. “Madam, do you know what you have?!”
She looks him up and down. “It’s not what you think.”
“I know what it is.”
“It’s not disgusting or lewd.”
“Where … did … you … find it? I must have it.”
“It’s the last can and you can’t have it.”
“It’s the last can and I can’t have it?”
“That’s right.”
“No it’s not. It’s the last can and I can have it.” He reaches forward, snatches it out of her cart, and runs to the front of the store. He hears the woman wailing and sobbing, screaming to anybody and everybody that somebody has her Spotted Dick.
The blathering idiot is almost out of the store when he is stopped by an off duty police officer working as a security guard. The blathering idiot has his Spotted Dick firmly clutched in his hands. He told the checkout clerk he didn’t need a bag. Zoey was waiting. It was all she wanted to patch things up between them. It was British, she said, and she wanted to help celebrate the Olympics. She showed him the ad and off he dashed to the store, barely getting his clothes on.
“Sir, I need to see some ID,” the security guard says.
“What?” the blathering idiot asks. “I paid for it fair and square.”
The guard nods. “I’m sure you did, but I still need to see some ID. I’m afraid I am going to have to cite you.”
“For what?”
The guard looks down at what the blathering idiot has clutched in his hand. Then he looks down below that. “Sir, your fly is open and several people have spotted … have seen your spotted….”
