Big Ugly Man Doll

This afternoon after work, I drove to Target to pick up a prescription for SOBUMD, whose knee hurt after her Dr visit to find out why her knee hurt.  Go figure.  She sent me to Target armed with the knowledge that they had the prescription ready and a coupon for a $10 gift card if you get your prescription filled there.  Since our co-pay is also $10, this is the functional equivalent of free drugs.

I pick up the drugs and take the gift card an few aisles down to the “self medicating” section, where I find a 6-pack of Sierra Nevada’s Pale Ale and head to the checkout counter.  Placing the beer on the belt, the checkout person requests my Driver’s License. 

Now, I’m a good looking guy, don’t get me wrong.  I look suave and debonair, handsome, approaching avant-garde – about as good looking as I can get and still be called a Big Ugly Man Doll.  I do not, however, look anywhere close to 21 years old. 

What kills me is that the Vicodin I just picked up – for someone else, mind you – probably has a street value of something like $300, and the only check they ran was that I knew what SOBUMD’s address is.  Age, identification, hat size, nothing.  But six bottles of cold barley soup?  Proof of age required, regardless of wrinkles.    

 (I will note that I almost never get carded when I have the kids with me, though we’re still not sure whether they constitute proof of age or proof of need.)

 But can someone tell me why we have tighter controls on a 12-oz cold one than on 40 Vicodin tablets?  Am I missing something here?

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