Dr. NoSleep

Not to worry.

I believe him.

Like I believe a drunk when he says that he can drive home just fine.

Although I'm not catching any whiff of reefer.

I do smell rotten eggs, but there's nothing illegal about an egg sandwich.

Probably not the best customer service idea to let that smell leak out into the rest of the store.

But these guys are all minimum wage slaves, so I ain't gonna bust this guy's balls about it.

So, a caddy?

I ask.

The clerk nods and gestures to the aisle to my left.

You don't need a caddy, sir.

I follow him over to the aisle, and we walk halfway down before he stops in front of an almost empty shelf.

There's a single box on the shelf.

That's it.

You need a buddy, he says with a grand gesture like he's revealed some amazing secret.

A bench buddy.

I stare at the box.

It's about two feet high and two feet wide.

The image on the cover is a small robot with a trillion arms all doing something at once.

I read the fine print, and the actual item inside the box only has two arms, not a trillion.