I see your Patriot Act and raise you the Americans with Disabilities Act. I have an anxiety disorder, and this is my comfort durian. It's called Don. Don the Durian.
I sometimes brought bags of raw produce to the Harold Washington Library. (I like to go to the Lincoln Park farmer's market on Wednesday morning, telecommute from downtown, and then go home to Hyde Park at night.)
They usually don't complain while I'm sitting there, but the guards don't like checking a week's worth of vegetables for books on my way out. So I've stopped.
The last time I was in there I had my library book and the receipt in my hand on the way out. The guard looked in my work bag, saw the pile of books I already had in there, and said "Are those yours?" "Yes." He waved me on.
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Fine then: "This? But it's a durian! No one in their right mind eats these!"
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They usually don't complain while I'm sitting there, but the guards don't like checking a week's worth of vegetables for books on my way out. So I've stopped.
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Great security.
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