Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers: Get The Hell Out Of My Way!!

October 4, 2013

When misfortune strikes me in such a way that I am forced to replenish stock and procure supplies, I do so out of pure necessity. Superstores aren’t exactly my natural habitat. In fact, I think any time spent in one should be applied as advance payment on purgatorial punishment. My mission is simply to attain my goods and depart the premises post-haste. Instead, I find myself embroiled in a social experiment gone horribly wrong. As far as I’m concerned, Wal-Mart is nothing but a giant Petri dish of humanoid dysfunction.

My movements are such that I circumvent the crowds in a stealth-like fashion. Nary a blur is seen as I bob and weave through the mass of gluttonous consumers as they graze like demented cattle. As I swiftly navigate the jungle of Chinese plastic, I am in tune to the path of least resistance. At all costs, I will avert elbow-knocking with the gaggles of glassy-eyed gawkers.

My purpose is pure. My list is short and free of fluff. My visit is one of unadulterated functionality. Yet, most of those around me seem lost. They spin around in place eye-raping the shelves and drifting from aisle to aisle with strings of drool connecting their lower lip to their chest. The lack of certitude in their motion hints at a recent sale on Benadryl and wine coolers. The slightest breeze seems to move them along like farts in the wind carelessly aflutter.

Gizmos and gadgets are randomly plucked from the shelves, groped and prodded. Boxes are shaken and opened before being tossed askew from whence they came. Cancer-grade hygiene products are sniffed, sampled and slathered upon the necks of the vendees. With such a fondle fest going on, it’s like a DNA Swap Meet at the local fairgrounds. With every item cuddled and caressed, customers expose themselves to a grab-bag of pathogens, surface yeast and crotch-crickets. Biological warfare could be waged with the microbial funk residing on a Wal-Mart shelf. Look with your eyes, people! Not every item needs to be fingered, fidgeted and fucked with!

I enter the final stretch only to find more ragamuffins loitering about in their baggy-ass sweat pants. I can never tell if they dropped a deuce or if they’re trying to steal DVDs. If only shopping carts were rigged with cow catchers I could plow through the peeps like bowling pins sending them pell-mell to the wayside. I just have no patience for the shuffling dim-witted patrons of a dung gallery. I just want to pay for my AA batteries and make my escape to the great outdoors where I don’t have to share my oxygen with anybody within sneezing distance. Thank you for shopping with us, folks. Come again!

Beer & Loathing in Supermarket Hell

September 1, 2012

I think there should be a special line at the supermarket for problematic customers. Anybody who remembers the Puppy Chow only after unloading their cart onto the conveyer, clearly doesn’t belong in the same line as me. The road to the register is a sacred place, man. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s the transitional point between pushing around a heavy shopping cart full of beer and going home and drinking a… shopping cart full of beer. Point is, if you have to run back to Aisle 3 for anything once you’re in line, whether it be Kool-Aid or extra-small condoms, you’re a prime candidate for lock-up in Retail Jail. Follow decorum or spend the afternoon locked inside the frozen fuckin’ broccoli closet with all the fruit-fondlers and turkey bowlers. And anybody who knows that their check won’t clear… or for that matter, anyone still writing checks 2000 plus years after the death of Christ needs to be excommunicated to the flunky lane along with all those suckers still buying video tapes and flash cubes for their fucking camera.

Meanwhile, I can assure Lady Alpo in front of me that the cashier does not need to waste valuable time discussing a customer’s avoidance of bran products. Unless your therapist is moonlighting at the local friggin’ Food-Hut, there is no reason to converse in depth with the grocery clerk. These people are there to wave noodle bags over the scanner and slide Cheez Whiz down to the bagger. For many, this is more than enough of a challenge. Cashiers are far too busy for asinine drivel and don’t get paid enough to multitask. Let’s let them focus on the task at hand so we can all move on to a more pleasant activity far the fuck away from the barcode jungle.

Oh, and let it be known to baggers everywhere that plastic is always fine. Don’t bother me with choices, they’ll only confuse me. This is the 21st century, though. We’ve killed enough fucking trees it’s a miracle we can still find a shady spot to loaf in while pretending to be at work. Paper bags are no more relevant than burlap friggin’ sacks. This ain’t Little House On The Fuckin’ Prairie over here. I’m not visiting a feed store where my purchase will be delivered via shovel. I won’t be carrying grain by the pound or a rack full of animal pelts any time soon, and I certainly don’t have a donkey tied to a post in the parking lot. Plastic should suit the bagging needs of anyone living in this century, which is pretty much everyone that I know. Bottom line: Paper bags are an impractical product of a bygone era. They don’t have handles, they don’t scoop shit well, and they’re far too difficult to suffocate in. And, of course, I realize plastic bags are effectively made from Iraqi blood but I refuse to politicize an issue of personal convenience.

Finally, cashiers need to stop telling me to press the green button as if I’m still in my third year of kindergarten. I slid the card, I can follow the prompts. I’m not a kid punching his busy box waiting for something to happen and I’m not crackin’ a fuckin’ safe here. And if I want cash back… I’ll just take it!

A Slice Of Cheese And A Pound Of BullShit

July 12, 2010

Package of Monkey Tits, organic jungle boobie meat

“Two slices of the Low-Sodium, Slightly-Glazed Virgina Ham cut as thin as possible without being shaved, please. I’d like a sample first, though” the man requested. With his face pressed up against the glass case, he looked up and added “I’d also like to sample the Horseradish Maple Swiss Cheese with the pimento particles stuffed inside it. Make it slightly thicker than the ham. I want a slice from the middle of the loaf, though. The ends never taste fresh. Don’t put it away, either. If I like it, I’ll have 3 slices of that one. Thanks.” Thus began my afternoon at the delicatessen.

Ultimately, my anal-retentive friend rejected the sample’s flavor and molecular density.  He browsed and pondered at his leisure before requesting another elaborately detailed cut of lunch meat. The line lengthened, stomachs grumbled and watches were checked for missed appointments. Yet, the man stood shamelessly collecting separate baggies each containing a few slivers of meat or cheese. Granted, I’m not highly educated. I possess no degree or title in lunchmeat connoisseurship. Yet, I couldn’t help thinking that if I was going to buy just enough meat for one sandwich, I would buy… hmmm… let me see… oh, I know… a fucking sandwich! Clearly though, Mr. Slice was indeed well-versed in the deli-arts and intended on building an edible masterpiece on his own terms. I could only assume that he would stop at the bakery to calibrate their ovens before purchasing one small hand-picked hoagie roll.

One of the most obnoxious activities witnessed at the deli counter has to be the incessant sampling of every meat block and cheese log under the glass. It’s not the Pepsi Challenge, dude, you don’t need to taste ‘em all. I say, roll the dice and buy a pound. If it tastes like an unwiped ass, just induce vomiting and hope it tastes better on the way back up. Besides, at least half of those sample-grubbers are just trying to get a free lunch while standing in line. Most people buy the same damn cold cuts every week, anyway. They already know what the Spicy Rat’s Ass tastes like and don’t need to nibble on a chunk while rolling their eyes around in debate over the purchase. The deli clerk should recognize these repeat offenders, deny them samples and send them to the end of the line with a pepperoni stick up their backside.

My turn at the deli counter is much more streamlined. I order deli meat with a great degree of certainty. “Genoa Salami, one pound, the good stuff” I bark, as my fist strikes the counter like a gavel springing my pastrami pal into action. Simple and straightforward, no clarification is required. This malarkey about the thickness of the cut is just another example of American culture gone berserk. In other parts of the world, people have to hunt and kill their own olive loaf each day before lunch. I just couldn’t, in good conscience, stand there and demand that my Hickory Squirrel Loaf be exactly 12mm in girth. If it was that damned important, I’d carry digital micro-calipers to the deli to gauge each slice for accuracy. Quite frankly, I don’t have the fucking time. Ballpark estimates work just fine for such trivialities. The Cheddar Chief behind the counter needs to take the customer’s preference out of the equation and use common sense. If the ham is sliced so thin that I could trace the funnies through it or mistake it for toilet paper, you might want to beef things up a bit. On the other hand, if the Smoked Bull Wanker is so thick that it could smother a large child, you can probably shave it down a few notches. As far as I’m concerned, anywhere in between those two extremes should just be fine for everybody. So, lock down that adjustment knob, Baloney Boy, and keep the line moving, please!