It was the challenge of a lifetime, standing forlornly in line at the supermarket. The dilemma was this: If I jump out of line and race back toward the bakery to get buns for the hamburgers, can I make it back in time without someone shoving my stuff out of the way?
Right in front of me was this fucking really huge fat lady arguing about her credit card not working. “My credit is perfect,” she says. “There’s no reason my card should be denied. You need to run it through again, or call whoever you need to call, or something, but that card is fine. My credit’s perfect.”
She sounded embarrassed, which I guess happens to everybody when their card is denied. But like I cared. Would she keep this argument up in time for me to go back and get the buns I forgot? That’s what I needed to focus on.
So I charged. I cut through the detergent aisle, past the handsoaps and the eye make-up and the cough syrups and the fucking dishpan rags. I just booked it. My heels were made of fire.
The buns I grabbed felt stale, but fuck it. As long at the hamburgers are good, who really gives a shit about the buns? To get back I cut through the wine aisle and grabbed a twelve-pack of good German beer. I almost slipped on a broken jar of pickles some jerk probably left there for someone else to clean up.
When I got back to the line, with sweat on my brow, the fat lady with the bad credit card was long gone, and some asshole had put all my stuff into a basket and kicked it out of the way. I picked the basket up off of the ground, swinging it through the air. “Okay people, who’s the asshole?”
Everyone turned around and looked at me. “That’s right. Who’s the fucking asshole who shoved my stuff out of the way? Who’s the fucking lunatic who thinks this is funny?”
I turned to one of the fat old ladies at the cigarette counter. “Was it one of you fat fucking assholes? Was it?”
It made as much sense as throwing my housekey into the ocean.unburiableMay 23 2003, 15:16:17 UTC
I had so much weighing on the immediate execution of a fast and faultless drive home. What I got in return was nothing. I had everything dashed against rocks and to show for it I had bruises on my mind, and a digital clock on the dashboard that pretty much seemed to be spitting numbers out with all the careful consideration of a tommy gun.
But that’s rush hour traffic for you, isn’t it? Aren’t I fucking ridiculous for not having gotten my shopping done before rush hour on the Friday night we’re supposed to have this barbeque?
Son of a bitch. I just know people are going to be pissed off when there are no buns for the hamburgers. And they’re going to cut the burgers down the middle to fit them on hot dog buns, and when I finally get there, my wife is going to say to me:
“Honey, can you go out and get some more hot dog buns, because we’ve run out.”
Sometimes I want to take a swing at my wife with the fishing rod. Maybe as I cast the line I can get the hook caught on her cheek, or her nose, and then I’ll throw out the line like normal, and with it will go her face. How pretty will she be then, huh?
I’m starting to think she’s sleeping with that kid next door, so will they still be together after she loses an eye on a fishing trip? Will he still want to fuck her like that? I know I wouldn’t.
I bet he’s at the party right now. He’s probably drinking my beer, sitting in my favorite lawn chair, helping my wife cook hamburgers without the buns. He’s probably smiling at her. She’s probably smiling back.
Right in front of me was this fucking really huge fat lady arguing about her credit card not working. “My credit is perfect,” she says. “There’s no reason my card should be denied. You need to run it through again, or call whoever you need to call, or something, but that card is fine. My credit’s perfect.”
She sounded embarrassed, which I guess happens to everybody when their card is denied. But like I cared. Would she keep this argument up in time for me to go back and get the buns I forgot? That’s what I needed to focus on.
So I charged. I cut through the detergent aisle, past the handsoaps and the eye make-up and the cough syrups and the fucking dishpan rags. I just booked it. My heels were made of fire.
The buns I grabbed felt stale, but fuck it. As long at the hamburgers are good, who really gives a shit about the buns? To get back I cut through the wine aisle and grabbed a twelve-pack of good German beer. I almost slipped on a broken jar of pickles some jerk probably left there for someone else to clean up.
When I got back to the line, with sweat on my brow, the fat lady with the bad credit card was long gone, and some asshole had put all my stuff into a basket and kicked it out of the way. I picked the basket up off of the ground, swinging it through the air. “Okay people, who’s the asshole?”
Everyone turned around and looked at me. “That’s right. Who’s the fucking asshole who shoved my stuff out of the way? Who’s the fucking lunatic who thinks this is funny?”
I turned to one of the fat old ladies at the cigarette counter. “Was it one of you fat fucking assholes? Was it?”
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Bullshit.
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But that’s rush hour traffic for you, isn’t it? Aren’t I fucking ridiculous for not having gotten my shopping done before rush hour on the Friday night we’re supposed to have this barbeque?
Son of a bitch. I just know people are going to be pissed off when there are no buns for the hamburgers. And they’re going to cut the burgers down the middle to fit them on hot dog buns, and when I finally get there, my wife is going to say to me:
“Honey, can you go out and get some more hot dog buns, because we’ve run out.”
Sometimes I want to take a swing at my wife with the fishing rod. Maybe as I cast the line I can get the hook caught on her cheek, or her nose, and then I’ll throw out the line like normal, and with it will go her face. How pretty will she be then, huh?
I’m starting to think she’s sleeping with that kid next door, so will they still be together after she loses an eye on a fishing trip? Will he still want to fuck her like that? I know I wouldn’t.
I bet he’s at the party right now. He’s probably drinking my beer, sitting in my favorite lawn chair, helping my wife cook hamburgers without the buns. He’s probably smiling at her. She’s probably smiling back.
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