On Grocery Shopping. . .

I hate any kind of shopping that doesn’t involve the Internet and a Fed Ex Guy. It’s waaaaay too labor intensive for my liking.

You have to drive to the store. You get a cart, you get a bunch of crap off the shelves and put it in the cart. Then you take all the crap out of the cart and place it onto the check out conveyor. The clerk then has to touch all the crap while scanning and bagging it. Then you put it back in the cart. You push the full cart to the parking lot where you transfer all the shit once again, this time into your car. You drive it all home and lug the shit into the house. And finally, you have to get all that fucking merchandise off your foyer floor and out of the bags and into its designated place in your home – which likely involves several flights of stairs.

It’s bullshit. And I hate it. In fact, every time I watch that Extreme Couponing show – which is only under extreme duress, of course – all I can think about is dealing with all that stupid merchandise.

So it should come as no surprise I try to avoid any sort of errand that involves the aforementioned scenario. . .at least until the toilet paper situation becomes dire.

I was forced to drag myself to the grocery store under such dire circumstances this morning. First of all, Saturday morning at the grocery store is never good. Saturday morning the day before the local football team plays a very important play-off game at home is pure hell.

The parking lot is full of people, and carts, and distracted drivers. What little merchandise is left on the shelves is in complete disarray. Kids are crawling under the sneeze shields of the olive bar and sticking their vile little fingers into the pre-packaged chicken thighs. If you don’t get killed in the parking lot, you could certainly die from gawd-only-knows-what that kid coughed onto your olives.

I’m in the produce section marveling at the price of a red bell pepper and hiking up my ill-fitting jeans for the 201,584th time when I hear some commotion a bit farther back in the store. My interest is piqued.

I rush through the produce aisles. I nearly stiff arm some poor soul squeezing heads of iceberg lettuce just to get to the baby carrots. I swoop into the “gourmet cheese” display and grab the cheapest and least gourmet blue cheese they offer.

I’m in a hurry, headed towards the commotion and noise, which I have now determined is coming from the vicinity of the deli. I’m eager to know what could be causing such a ruckus. This has the potential to make all my grocery troubles worthwhile.

I round the olive bar and bring my cart to a screeching halt. The deli counter is about 4 deep its entire length. People are swarming. They look like maggots on a piece of raw hamburger – if maggots wore purple sweatshirts. The frazzled employees are working at a breakneck pace, the only thing separating them from this hungry swarming mass of humanity is a chilled case full of cured meat and a few anemic looking mayonnaise soaked salads.

I smirk as I survey the carnage. Who’s stupid for being a vegetarian now, bitches? Yet, upon close look, it is indeed controlled chaos. Most people have taken their number from the number-dispensing doo-hickey and are waiting patiently for their half pound of Coopers Sharp. . .most people. . .

That’s when I spot the epicenter of the deli debacle. Off to the far side, and in my opinion in dangerous proximity to the lobster tank, is a man of considerable size. He’s in a supermarket-issued rascal and he’s being very vocal. His body practically ungulates when he speak/shouts. My wicked mind immediately flashes an image of that pale fat thing from Star Wars, but on a motorized scooter.

Do you know what he’s screaming over and over and over again? He’s screaming “Ravens fans are SOOOOOOO rude! Ravens fans are SOOOOOO rude! Ravens fans are SOOOOOO rude!”

I watch for a few moments thinking (ok kinda’ hoping) someone might take a swing at him but nada so I continue shopping. I’ll bet you probably get a free one-way ticket to hell if you take a swing to a guy in a motorized scooter.

As I’m waiting in a checkout line that practically snakes into the bakery, Mr. Motorized Scooter comes zipping past me.

He is wearing a Raven’s sweatshirt. . .

So presumably he’s a Raven’s fan?!

This onion obviously has many layers.

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2 thoughts on “On Grocery Shopping. . .

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