What the hell?
Seriously. What the hell, my dear little shithook, Moronica? It’s gotten to the point that, when I walk through the door, I’m already wondering if I’m gonna be stuck - in the end - with you.
Sometimes, after a long trip wrangling my cart up and down the narrow-assed aisles, by the time I get to checkout I’m too pooped to ponder which line you’ll be mishandling. I just line up behind some other sore sod, reading the dumbass magazine headlines lined up all around me in the racks like I’m too stupid to realize they’re placed there precisely because we’re stuck there having to read them precisely because you’re too goddamn slow to keep the line moving, and I Zen out.
BUT, and it’s a big but, not unlike your own -except in the spelling – what? – yeah, your butt has two T’s – TWO – yeah – that’s right – yeah- mine has two T’s, too...
Jesus, where was I? Oh, yeah…
When I run in after work to grab three or four things, and I head for the ridiculously named ‘quickie lane’ and I turn the corner and see you in it, I know ahead of time, I’m prime time fucked.
Here’s a news flash. I don’t care how you’ve shaved up your pubic hair, or if you like to spray lilac spray, as you say, ‘down there’, as you’re telling the other rude chick standing there purportedly to bag my purchase, ‘my man don’t like body smells down there’.
I reject you, Moronica. I reject you good and proper. Now shut up and actually DO something, quietly, so I can get the hell outta here. Until next week.