A friend of mine is visiting a quaint little college town the other day, wandering around with a friend of hers in the late evening when they discover a chocolate shop. The sign says the place closes at eight, but it’s still open. The owner tells them he just likes to give people something to do.
Looking over the rows and rows of fluffy raspberry-creme truffles, chocolate-covered espresso bean topped cappachino truffles, juicy, red chocolate-dipped strawberries, fudges of any and all descriptions, and way too much sublimated eroticism embodied in chocolate form in general, they hear the phone ring.
The owner picks up the phone and say,
“Hot tub, huh?”
“And you’re naked?”
“I’ll be home as soon as I’m done with these customers.” He has this huge grin on his face as he rings them up.