It's raining pro football players

As he approached along the supermarket aisle this morning, I knew he had to be one.  "Excuse me," I said, "you must be a football player."  He stopped, smiled broadly and replied, "I used to be."  On his head was a championship cap of some sort, but he was so tall, I couldn't make out the words. 

I continued, "who did you play for?"  Oh, I didn't play in this country, he said, meaning he must have been a "real" pro football player because he was distinctly American.  Maintaining my in-your-face approach, I told this great, huge, black, oak of a man about meeting some of the Argos in Regina.  "So, who are you going to cheer for?" he asked.  "That's my dilema.  Being from the East and having met the Argos, I kinda feel I should back them, but I'm now a Calgarian, so I have no clue," I replied. 

He laughed and we continued on our separate ways, his wife having walked on, probably annoyed at yet another encounter with a boring fan -- especially an old broad raving about her 15 minutes of fame with the Argos.  As B says, Nancy talks to everyone.  I do and it's always so much fun!

Next stop was the meat department, where evidently my late mother must have been hovering.  I scanned the freezer for a "utility" bird, the kind she always bought at Christmas.  None.  So, I asked the young butcher working nearby if they had any?  "I'll check in the back."  A few minutes later, he emerged with a gorgeous, cheap utility turkey.  Victory!

Thanks Mum.