Random report from The Land Of Secret Twelve-Year-Olds:
At lunch a few minutes ago I was standing in line at the cafeteria grill behind a nursing coordinator whom I've seen for ages and always admired but never spoken to: spiky hair, big lush body covered in goth-lite wear or eccentric prints in deeply saturated hues, extremely cool blood-red cat-eye glasses, a snarkful face, and a big laugh.
Today the grill line wasn't moving, wasn't moving, and wasn't moving. She turned to me, rolled her eyes forever, and said, "Painfully slow today."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't think right now because I'm too mesmerized by the most Folsom Street glove box I've ever seen," and I pointed to a box of disposable food handler's gloves that featured a picture of a giant begloved hand making a big fierce fist, above copy bragging about its toughness, antimicrobial properties and gauntlet cuff.
She looked, did a beautiful double-take, and totally lost her shit, and we spent the rest of our lunch wait snerking like twelve-year-olds.
And I'm heartbroken that after 15 minutes of Googling, I can't find an image of the box itself; it's such a vast confluence of accidental porniness that I just can't believe it's accidental.