Supermarket of the Living Dead
I think on Sundays the dead walk again, or at least they do at my local supermarket. Shuffling along with their carts, stopping in the middle of the motherfucking aisle for a nap or a heart attack or something.
Then there are the brain-dead ones giggling on their retarded cellphones and nearly running me over with a cart, or making out with their insipid flip-flop-wearing boyfriends.
All men who wear flip-flops should be shot. I came that close to planting a combat boot up the ass of one guy last week, not because he was blocking the aisle, but because he was wearing flip-flops. Mostly because he was way too good-looking to strap flaps of rubber to his feet and go cavorting around in public.
On the way home, loud rumbles of thunder, three raindrops, then nothing. So I suppose the clouds are like old people too, grumbling, a dribble of pee, then nothing.
Yes, I am in fine form today. Mostly because I hate grocery shopping. If I could live off cat hair I'd be all set.
And I forgot the damn cat food, too.
I should be knitting.
Then there are the brain-dead ones giggling on their retarded cellphones and nearly running me over with a cart, or making out with their insipid flip-flop-wearing boyfriends.
All men who wear flip-flops should be shot. I came that close to planting a combat boot up the ass of one guy last week, not because he was blocking the aisle, but because he was wearing flip-flops. Mostly because he was way too good-looking to strap flaps of rubber to his feet and go cavorting around in public.
On the way home, loud rumbles of thunder, three raindrops, then nothing. So I suppose the clouds are like old people too, grumbling, a dribble of pee, then nothing.
Yes, I am in fine form today. Mostly because I hate grocery shopping. If I could live off cat hair I'd be all set.
And I forgot the damn cat food, too.
I should be knitting.