A Trivial Fuss

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
Two guys shop for a key ingredient they're missing for their party. ***WARNING***Mild language and crude humour***

Submitted: October 10, 2019

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 10, 2019



I grabbed the holy shit bar when Joe sped into the parking lot.  He was driving a little too fast for my taste, especially on a turn, but he wanted to hurry: he only had an hour before guests started arriving.  We’d set everything up this morning so we could relax before the party, he’d thought everything was good, then realized he was missing something.  One important ingredient from the mix that he thinks is going to make his party a hit.  And he has to have it; he can’t go without it because it’s going to make all the difference.  So here we are, speeding into a goddamn parking lot.

He pulls into the first spot he finds, throws his door open and hops out of the truck, then slams it closed and hits the lock on the fob before I’ve slid out on my side.  I speed-walk to catch up to him, but he’s already hustling across the pedestrian crossing.

“Jesus!  Calm down, dude.  You have plenty of time before the party and besides, I don’t think you really need it anyway.”

“I just want to grab some in case the party starts to die,” he shouts over his shoulder.

I jog across the lane before a car reaches me, because they’re not going to slow down.

Joe’s already at the front door.  He stops to wait for me, the nice guy he is.  “Besides, it never hurts to have some for anyone who’s interested.”

I shrug.  “All right, man.  It’s your party.”

When we enter the store, he immediately scans the aisle headers.  I just follow.

Social Amenities.  Come on.”  He marches towards the aisle.

It’s a long aisle with lots of items.

“Shit, dude.  How are we going to find it in all of this?”

Joe checks the price tag of the first item, then checks the one beside it.  “They’re alphabetized, so we have to find the f’s.”

He moves slower while he skims the price tags.  I look at all the crap on the shelves.  We better not have to go digging for this stuff.

Joe stops and stares at a blank space on the shelf.  “No.”  He double-checks the price tags.  “Oh, come on!”

“What’s up?”

“It’s supposed to be here.”

“Check the bottom shelf, someone might’ve buried one.  You know how people do.”

We get down and scour the bottom shelf.  Joe gets on his tiptoes and checks the top shelf, but there’s nothing.

“Shit!  I really wanted it.”

“Well, they don’t have it, so what do you want to do?”

“Maybe they have something similar.”  He starts looking.

“All right.  What is it you were looking for?”


“Folderol?  So that’s like nonsense, right?”

He shrugs.  “Yeah, sort of.  It’s trivial or nonsensical fuss, also categorized as showy but useless items.”

It sounds like a bunch of bullshit.  “And you want it for your party?”

“Yeah, man.  It'll add some jazz to the scene.”

I shake my head.  “I think your party would be fine without it.”

“But it would be better with it.”

I roll my eyes.  “Whatever.”

“Dude, Becky’s coming.  I want to make sure she has a good time.  Maybe she’ll stay after everyone else bails.”

“Don’t you think you’re trying too hard?  Just be you and if she doesn’t like you, oh well.”

“No, dude.  No.  That’s not happening.  I’ve dreamed of hooking up with Becky since tenth grade when we were at that pool party.”

“Man, she’s changed since then.  You’ve changed.  You’re not the quiet, shy guy anymore and she’s not Ms. Volleyball anymore.  Try saying ‘hi’ and see how it goes.”

“I can’t take that chance.  I need some folderol to up my odds.”

“Is she even single?”

He shrugs and starts looking.  “I don’t know, but I’ll find out and go from there.”

“So we might be doing this for nothing.”

Joe’s nostrils flare like they do when he gets frustrated.  “Would you just help me look for something like folderol?”

I sigh.  I don’t want to waste my time with this shit, but I know he won’t leave until he finds something.  “All right, dude.  Let’s look for some nonsense.”

I head back up the aisle while he goes further down.  I check every price tag, moving fast.  I want to get out of here.

“Don’t forget, we only have about a half-hour,” he shouts.

“No kidding,” I mutter.  “Hey, I’ve got ‘crapola’ over here.”


“What about ‘codswallop’?”

“Umm, no, I don’t think that would work.”

I can’t help but chuckle at the next one I find.  “Hey, dude, how about ‘cock’?  You need cock?”

I look over and see him trying not to laugh.  He shakes his head.  “No, I’m good for cock.”

“You sure?”


“You don’t need cock?”

“No, I have all the cock I need.”

“I hope Becky’s impressed by it because I don’t think it’s anything to write home about.”

Joe laughs.  “Who would I write about the size of my penis to back home?”

I stop myself from cackling and try to keep it together long enough to answer.  “Your mom’s always been an involved parent,” I say between giggles.

Joe laughs harder.  “Screw you, man.”

I keep looking and spot another possibility that looks good.  I grab the box and read the back.  This could be it.  I hold it up for Joe to see and holler, “Hey, how about some ‘claptrap’?”

“What’s in it?”

I read the box again.  “Absurd and nonsensical talk or ideas.”

He thinks about it and shrugs.  “Hold onto it.  It’s an option.”

“Okay.  What have you found?”

“Nothing useful.  ‘Gammon’, ‘gibberish’, ‘guff’, ‘hogwash’, I see some ‘pother’ and ‘rigmarole’ on the other shelf, but that doesn’t help.  There’s ‘tommyrot’ and ‘twaddle’, but those don’t cut it.  I’ve got some ‘tosh’, some ‘wheedle’ on the bottom shelf, and some ‘malarkey’ here, but I don’t think any of it’s any good.”

“You should come up here, man.  They have plenty up this way: ‘bushwa’, ‘bunkum’, ‘bollocks’, ‘blether’, ‘blarney’, ‘balderdash’.”

“What’s blether?” he asks, coming up the aisle.

I pick up the box and look it over.  “Oh, it’s long-winded talk without substance.  You don’t want that, dude.”

“No, no, I don’t.”  He looks over the box of claptrap.  “I guess this’ll have to do.  I really wanted the showy stuff to go with the fuss.”

“I think this is better for you.  Absurd and nonsensical talk sounds better than trivial fuss.  You don’t want fuss, man.”

“I guess I don’t.”  He smacks me on the shoulder.  “I guess this worked out then.”

We head for the checkout.

“You still don’t know if Becky’s single or not,” I say.

He shrugs.  “It doesn’t matter—some absurdity will be good for the party, anyway.”  He grins.  “It’ll be like when we used to smoke pot at the back of the field, remember?”

Oh, the good old days.

I smile.  “It’ll be some party.”

© Copyright 2020 Jeff Bezaire. All rights reserved.

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