Mr. Whipple Needs to Whip Some Ass…

I was just at the grocery store at 5:30 p.m.  That was my tactical error.  I don’t work a traditional work week and I am not bound by the confines of a schedule that allows me only a brief “on my way home” window in which to buy groceries.  I don’t know what I was thinking.

The rage began as a slow burn in the dairy section, as I looked towards the swirling, directionless swarm of people on cellphones maneuvering their grocery carts around each other with a combination of blissful unawareness and NASCAR precision.  I knew that I had to navigate these murky, choppy waters towards the checkout if I ever again wanted to see the safe harbor of my living room.

By the time we reached the checkout, the lines had grown to about ten deep, so we opted for the SELF checkout because we like to feel like we are somehow IN CONTROL.  We assumed our place in line behind a man in jogging shorts buying beer and garlic and we waited.

Idle hands really are the devil’s oven mitts, or whatever the hell that phrase is.  As I waited with nothing else to occupy my brain, I was able to watch people jockeying for position in line, as though somehow they are exempt from waiting.  I watched an old woman amble up to the customer service man and, through an interpretation of body language, I surmised that she had asked him to ring up her purchase for her at the self-checkout.  He readily and hastily rang up her oat bran, and she was out the door.

Seriously, I know that bitch wasn’t blind.  Using her “I’m old and feeble-minded” card, she looked around, decided that the lines did not apply to her, completely disregarded the SELF portion of the SELF CHECKOUT sign, and batted her sappy, aging eyes at the checkout man who NEGLECTED TO MENTION the line, as well.

I had to punch them both in the face.  It was sad.

I returned to my place in line just as the paramedics arrived and carted the old lady off.  Since I was aiming for my favorite spot – the four front bottom teeth – it didn’t occur to me that she might have dentures and, sure enough, I cracked that plate right in half and sent it sailing in two pieces under the checkstand.  That actually worked to my advantage since nobody could understand a word she was saying…looks like the old lady card BACKFIRED, HUH GRANNY?  In the commotion, she left her bag of oat bran behind, so I made sure to throw it in the garbage along with her receipt.*

*Italicized portions may be dramatized.  Except for THIS italicized portion that is, in fact, explaining the italics of the preceding portion.  It is NOT dramatized, hence the use of the word “may.”

What the hell is the matter with people?  The next lady that tried that stunt wasn’t nearly as successful.  After insinuating herself into the self-checkout, she reached in the basket to scan the first item and – with ninja-like precision, the lady behind me threw a roundhouse kick to this woman’s stomach, launching her in a backwards motion. Her thin, clammy, perimenopausal fingers still clutching her loaf of wheat bread as the bile gushed forth from her mouth, staining her pink cableknit sweater.  “Before you ring that up, we have all been waiting in LINE, ma’am,” the woman stated as she returned to the line.  The interloper, still heaving, collected the contents of her capsized cart and crawled past the line.  Her barely audible voice cracked, “but I only had a few things, I assumed that I could go.”  Just then, ninja-shopper delivered an audible and bone-crushing kick to her jaw to emphasize once again, “we are all waiting for the check-out.”

As the produce manager and the guy from the floral department dragged her lifeless body from out of the congested thoroughfare, I collected my groceries and exited the store…happy to be returning to the peace and comfort of my cozy little home!

*Just to reiterate, italicized portions are dramatized for the reader’s enjoyment.  At no point were any shoppers injured in the telling of this story.