Taste

“You know what I hate about people?” Peter asked Simon.    “Their clothes?”    Peter laughed. “No. Close, mate. But no, my hate is more all encompassing that that. It's their tastes. People have such bad taste.”    “No way. I would say that taste is completely subjective, but that's a cliché and that would make me look like a dickhead, and you know, I don't want to look like a dickhead, so I'll say that once-upon-a-time you never used to like Guinness. In fact, you couldn't stand it. Come on, tastes mature, mate. Although some people just never grow up, you know?” “Yeah, taste is a great limiter.”    “Your right, but if you put it in that way, it's also a great provider.”    “And it's you who are limited because you can't provide me with a decision. Retard.” The shopkeeper glared at them. A queue was gathering. He'd seen this stand-up routine before. Had bore witness to it nearly every Friday night for the last two years. Those two alcoholic idiots always had to have a stupid argument over which bottle of spirits they were going to buy. And it always ended the same way. The buying of two bottles. “Maybe I should cut down on my selection,” thought the shopkeeper. He had little patience.

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