So we did a Costco run today.
I work for what is ostensibly a competitor, but that doesn't diminish my respect for Costco one bit. Some of their prices are beyond belief, and there's no better place to go should you require a keg of ketchup or a barrel of barbeque sauce or a giant pole in the ribs.
Wait, how'd that get there?
Same way the tuna did, I guess.
We always take care to hit Costco within seconds of its opening, because (a) we don't like crowds and that place (b) crowded as hell within minutes of opening, every...single...day. Like most customers, we have a routine that takes us around the perimeter, with one quick and inevitable dart into the center to check out the books. New Uncle John's Bathroom Reader, yay. Back to the perimeter, and now we've hit the frozen foods. I snag a bag of burgers for an insanely cheap price, and then I turn around to make sure my wife is still in view. That's a real danger in that place: once Eva's gone, she's gone, lost in the madding crowd. Granted, the hordes haven't quite hit the frozen food yet, but bombardment is imminent.
At least I know what my wife is wearing today. I don't always; clothes, to me, are strictly functional and if I was substantially fatter, so as to have natural pockets, I probably wouldn't bother with them. (Oh, yeah, and if I lived in a universe where that image didn't just turn your stomach.) But Eva's clad in a new shirt I approved on her last Pennington's run, and she looks even prettier than usual.
But she's not in my aisle.
No problem, she's almost certainly an aisle over. I'll just cut over that way, holding the bag of burgers at chest level pointed away from me, looking at the magnificent array of food, boy does that tourtiere look g--
WHAMMO!
Several collisions happened at once, all because my head had collided with a cloud.
The burgers collided with a giant pole that suddenly appeared. My chest collided with the burgers. All the breath I had in me collided with the walls of my lungs and stopped dead. My pride collided with my dignity as I turned around to see how many hundred people had just witnessed this humiliation.
Nobody. Except Eva, who was trying to suppress sniggers of horrified laughter as she asked if I was okay. I was, I thought...a mite harder, though, and I probably would have yarked, and wouldn't that have been a story to tell the world.
I hate when I do something stupid that results in pain. I hate that I do it so often, of course, but I especially hate the mingled tears and laughter, the pain that screams you deserve me, you dumbass.
Now do you people get why I don't drive?
3 comments:
When you're on your bike are you this distracted? Related, if you ever get a Segway, let someone videotape it, please? ;)
No wonder you never venture into into the freezer you're responsible for... You probably posit an 'ideal freezer' in your ill-conceived mind's eye and imagine that zombies are responsible for its dissembled schizophrenic dissasembled dissorganized,disastrous state... Although it's metaphorical possibilities suggest that it's your mental state that is reflected in the off code milk and broken eggs that are the essential metaphysical metaphors for an over-reaching, soap-box preaching, blood-leaching preacher sputtering sermons teetering on stacks of freezer burnt confectionary towers that haunt your Hubris.
Tragic at the very least...
Grade: 2/10. So sad. You get the easy point for cowardice, which is the sine qua non of trolldom. A real master troller would leave his name.
Your attempt at verbosity is marginally interesting, but it lacks coherence and is wrong in most particulars to boot. I'll give you a point for the rhyme because I'm feeling generous, but overall you fail abysmally. If you really aspire to a career of lurking under bridges, a much better effort is required.
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