Today at the schmancy grocery store up the street, Mr. Butcher did not wash up after wrapping my boneless, skinless chicken breasts.
He took my money, and as I watched him turn away to make change, it dawned on me that he hadn't crossed over to the sink. He was making change with raw chicken essence all over his hands.
I frowned, worried that effluvia of chicken-sickness was going to rub off on my change. Little did I suspect that it was going to be even worse.