My Gift Horse, It Didn't Bite

After I woke up from my nap Saturday afternoon I decided to hit the grocery but not before feeling just a smidge guilty that I had, you know, just woken up from a nap. On a Saturday afternoon. When I was theoretically supposed to be washing dishes and scooping cat poop at the animal shelter for my speeding sins. But when the alarm went off at seven that morning my natural inclination to procrastinate took over before I could even cough up the last bit of infected green goo from my sinuses. And if you’ve ever tried to argue with yourself before 10am or more specifically, me, before 10am then you know it’s a losing battle. So instead of finding an appropriate Community Service outfit that portrayed my willingness to work while still showcasing my innate Better Than You status (You being the other community service workers) I putzed about the house, went to the bakery for an avocado egg sandwich with extra sprouts and then felt the inexorable pull of my fresh clean sheets around 2pm. And though I had weird dreams about skinny African children, old professors and even a sentient orange I fully support myself and my lascivious nap-taking.

Once I’d cleared my mouth of the nap-fungus I slipped my feet into my ratty black flip flops and grabbed the car keys because nothing was more important than buying some Diet Dr. Pepper. And maybe a sammich. Not even my pure unadulterated hatred for Wal-Mart could keep me away from my goal of a roast beef sandwich and caffeine.

As I was drove into the parking lot, however, I was reminded of why even the sight of that blue and white sign makes my insides clench in panic. I have this irrational fear of being arrested in Wal-Mart. Not for stealing anything because stealing has never really been anything that interested me but for throwing super-size cans of corn at people’s heads when they insist on walking three abreast down the cereal aisle or when the can’t keep their snot-nosed heathens in a single file line.

So I’m driving down one of the parking aisles when two young gentlemen feel the need to walk straight in front of my car. I patiently wait from them to move to one side or the other but instead, INSTEAD, they just continue ambling down the middle of the lot like they’ve got every business holding up me and the four cars idling behind me. So I creep forward, making sure they hear the sound of an approaching engine in hopes it will get them to move their ridiculously obese asses over. And when I say obese I mean that when the fat rolls on the back of your head roll up and over the back of your visor it may be time to put down the bacon sandwich and pick up a celery stick. Like now. And hopefully on the far side of the parking lot so I can fucking pass you.

Eventually I was able to park but not before shooting eye-obscenities in their general direction. On my way inside I picked up a buggy and began my usual marathon shopping trip. I do not compare deals or hem and fucking haw over which brand of bread to buy. I need wheat bread, there’s a stack of wheat bread, in the buggy you go! I need pepper jack cheese, there’s some pepper jack cheese, in the buggy you go! Very easy.

Once all my grocery items had been obtained I rolled up to the self-checkout lane. Now, I recognize that this lane actually takes just a wee bit longer than the regular lane because I don’t have years of experience quickly scanning yogurts and cat food and loaves of bread. But the few extra seconds it takes is well worth it in my book because it means less overall human contact and a much lower chance of me having to waste time wondering if someone actually named their child ‘Bubba Boo’ or if this is just a prime example of what a dank gene pool has done to the human race.

But Saturday my attempts at a quick exit were totally foiled by the broke-ass flat screen thing that insists on beeping and talking to you at the strangest of moments. By the time I had swiped my debit card the screen had turned into a veritable Picasso of flat-screened-ness, leaving the slow-as-Christmas cashier lady at a total loss. She just kept pushing at the random spots on the screen, thinking that was somehow her wicked long fingernails and their tap-tap-tapping on the screen were going to cow the thing into submission.

Right before she walked off to seek further help, the machine randomly spit out a receipt. I was a little confused because I thought the Crazy Cashier Lady with the Wicked Long Nails had canceled my debit card transaction due to its five minute status in a flashing beeping holding pattern. But the lady said I was done so I shoved the receipt in one of the bags and carried the groceries out to the car, driving home in air conditioned splendor, marveling at a song on the radio comparing what I can only assume is female genitalia to peanut butter and jelly. Something along the lines of ‘inside peanut buttah, outside jelly…seben days of da week, something something chevy.’ I’m not really sure how this song got on the radio but someone should tell this gentlemen that if his woman has a yoo-hoo with the consistency of crunchy peanut butter, he might want to get himself checked for The Herp. Just saying.

Back at the house I unloaded the groceries and immediately made myself a roast beef sandwich with pepper jack cheese which was utterly and yummily delicious, everything I’d hoped it could be. But while I was eating I noticed the receipt I’d left on the kitchen table. It only had a total of seven items for a grand total of fifteen dollars. I had at least 30 items, what with my week’s supply of yogurt, and a total of sixty dollars.

And then I got to work today and checked my bank statement. And you know what?
I TOTALLY GOT SIXTY DOLLARS WORTH OF GROCERIES FOR FREE.
Thank you Crazy Cashier Lady with the Wicked Long Nails for canceling my transaction!
I can now eat sushi three extra times this week!
Bless you!