Going to the store is bad enough. The bright, buzzing lights, annoying tinned music, and glaring advertisements set my teeth on edge. I have to buy food, therefore I tolerate these things. It’s the people, however, which take this hell to a whole new level.
Let’s start with the store manager. A pretentious weeble-wobble of a man, who is clearly descended from the pigs in Animal Farm, he positively lurks around behind stacks of Hamburger Helper, waiting for unsuspecting victims. And then he leers. Yes, he may be smiling, he may offer the obligitory greeting, but his eyes are firmly fixed on your tits. You can feel his porcine gaze trailing you down the aisle, burning a hole in your pants.
Next, we have the snobby WASP woman, with her cart full of the finest delicacies your local chain grocery store has to offer. We don’t know why she’s here…maybe she feels it’s a charity service to slum it with the plebes. She’s clearly not enjoying it. So much so that when she parks her cart precisely in the middle of the aisle, and you gently request that you might like to get by, she responds with “Well, excuse me!”, implying you are somehow being unreasonable for not wanting to wait fifteen minutes while she decides which variety of fat-free mayonnaise will go best with her paté.
And then we have the awkward situation of the astoundingly obese guy riding around the store on his little scooter. OK, I get it: you’re too fat to walk. Fine. I’m not sure how you managed to get into the store, if that’s the case, but it’s not my business. What is a problem for me is how you suddenly decide to put the thing in reverse, nearly run over my feet, and then scowl at me as if I should have known it was your intention before you did. And then drive away in a huff, while I am left picking up the fifteen packages of toilet paper that I backed into.
Of course, there’s the obligatory Bad Moms, which typically come in two varieties: the ones who let their five kids run howling about the store, pulling things off shelves, screeching for candy, and trying to kill every teetering grandma who foolishly strays into their path, and those who have an essentially well-behaved child who makes the mistake of mentioning they might want something. Of the two, I prefer the former. Because with the latter, I get to stand by in a quagmire of indecision while the Bad Mom begins screaming at her little victim, accusing them of being the worst offspring ever and threatening fire and brimstone if they ever even think about opening their mouth again, all the while yanking them by the arm so furiously that I’m seriously concerned the poor kid’s shoulder may be dislocated.
At last we reach the checkout line. If at all possible, I go through the self-check. For obvious reasons. Occasionally, though, I am forced by circumstance to go the human route. Which is painful enough, but inevitably there’s some complete fuckwit in front of me, talking on his cell phone. Typically via one of those dorky headsets. I keep wondering if anyone but me realizes how amazingly stupid people look when they’re walking around talking into those. I also wonder if anyone but me watches Dr. Who. But I digress. If people want to look like idiots, that’s their own business, but then this guy gets up to the checkout and proceeds to completely ignore the checkout person while continuing to talk to his lawyer about their golf game. I cannot imagine how this guy would respond if the checkout person were to do the same to him. I desperately want to grab that stupid fucking earpiece and cram it down his throat. But I don’t, and as a result by the time I come up next in line the checkout person is surly, clearly having read my mind and blaming me for not carrying through with my fantasy.
Finally, I am free. I reach the parking lot. And am nearly run over by some asshole in an SUV who has suddenly decided to cut across three parking aisles just so he can run over a complete stranger.
Seriously, fuck you all. I’m taking up gardening.
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While perusing the “Good Lord, NOOOO!” aisle of the supermarket, I came across the atrocity known as Dolores Brand Pickled Pork Rinds. These are not the crunchy pork rinds you’ll often see over by the chips. These are their grosser, soggier, potentially botulism-ier cousins.