COLD KUNG PAO

The grocery stores of suburbia are full of color, bright lights, and too many fucking people. Getting in and out quickly is a thing of the past. Going to the grocery store these days is like navigating the Temple of Doom, each turn a trial of patience and endurance. One must keep their wits through the endless aisles of produce and cleaning products. I made a run to the store to purchase a few items on my way to pick up Chinese take-out. All I needed was milk, Lucky Charms and a 12-pack of Coke. In and out, right? NO! First I had to park at least a hundred yards from the door and hope I made it inside without being run down by a cell phone-yakking soccer mom in her gargantuan SUV. Once safely inside, I made my mad dash to the dairy aisle where a dozen people with carts blocked my way. What is so difficult about grocery shopping that these people need to impede my progress? Keep your cart in front of you and move at a steady pace while plucking your goods from the shelf. Don’t block traffic by stopping or angling your cart. Moms with kids should keep the little shits strapped in the seat provided. Warning: tile floors are hard and shit happens. Let’s not have a brain matter clean up in aisle seven. Old people move slow. This is a fact of life. But while your wrinkled, geriatric ass is in the store, pick up the pace. Time is short. You should know this better than anyone, so move it, grandpa, or I’ll break that brittle hip with a can of peas. With a half-gallon of milk in hand I hustled to aisle nine for the Coke. Aisle nine was clear. I was on track and making good time to the cereal, but I was stopped in my tracks by a slug-like, fat family of six. One’s gelatinous flesh poured over the tiny plastic seat of its motorized cart. The rest waddled along, clogging the aisle just as the cholesterol clogs their hardened arteries. Graze on your own time! Losing precious seconds, I cut around the display of Easter candy to the check out line. Knowing there are never enough lines open, I head for the automated teller. In front of me there is a woman repeatedly scanning the same item. After the seventeenth try it dawns on her to turn the item over so that the machine can read the bar code. She repeats this process with six more items. The big, brightly colored payment options confuse her more so she writes a check, thus getting a cashier involved in the clearly marked “self-serve” lane. I want to kill this woman. I want to feed her head first to the automated teller. I want to see the remains of her foolish self trickle into the change cup. If you do not understand technology, don’t attempt to use it. Step away from it before you get hurt. Hurt by a person who has spent half an hour getting three fucking items and must now eat cold Kung Pao chicken.