Adventures in Shopping

So I just got home at four in the morning, relaxing in my lazy boy, enjoying a number 2 combo from Whataburger (double meat, no onions, add cheese), when I realize that I forgot to bring home toilet paper. This is a problem, you see, because I haven’t had a (cough, cough) movement all day, and this number 2 combo promises to rectify that soon. Also, there are other assholes in the house besides my own, one of which pokes her head into the living room, like some sort of crazy haired groundhog, to remind me that dawn in closing in on us, and some people are regular. Shit.

Ok, no problem. Pajamas off, jeans back on. Stomach percolating, don’t think about it. Keys, check. Where the fuck is my cell phone? Ok, got it. Wallet? In pants, good. Walk outside, start car, look out windshield, can’t see shit. Wtf? Oh, right. Glasses. Ok, back in the house. Christ, now that I’m back in, I don’t want to go out. Focus, man. Back in the car.

Finally arrive at HEB (Here Everything’s Better) a few minutes later, to a desolate parking lot, something out of a post apocalyptic wasteland. Shopping carts are littered everywhere. Some have trash in them, discarded sodas and crumpled up receipts. A few are knocked over, as if they just gave up and died. Doesn't anybody get these at night? As I walk in to the front door, carefully navigating through the land mine that is the shopping cart graveyard, I notice what appears to be a homeless man sitting on the bench in front of the store, speaking with what looks to be a, uh, lady of the evening. A surreal tableau that would drive Norman Rockwell mad.

Moving on….

Sometimes, when you shop in the middle of the night, it can be relaxing. You've got all the time in the world. There’s no one around to get in your way. You don’t run into to that one person that you haven’t seen in ten years, and they start talking to you, wanting to know how you've been, and you don’t really give a shit, but you’re smiling anyway because you don’t want to be rude, but for the life of you, you can’t remember their fucking name, and pretty soon you’re wondering if you even know this person at all.

But its not like that at night, mostly. But tonight, I arrived right in the middle of stocking. Piles of boxes in every aisle, some stacked too high, wobbling dangerously by the noodles. And the stockers don’t care. They’re doing their work to the beat of their ipods, eyeing me warily, as if I've invaded their territory. And _____ (insert deity of your choosing) help you if you move their boxes in an effort to reach the tuna fish, the one in spring water, not the one in oil, because you’ll just have to turn right around and go back to the store and get the right one this time, goddammit! Where was I?

Right, the shopping. Reach in pocket for list. Wait, I didn't write a list. Well, only one thing to do at this point. Go down every aisle till I remember what I came for. I know that eventually I’ll come across what I came here for, but for now its aisle one. And right off the bat, I’m stung by the impulse bug. For right in front of me is a display reading “5 for $10” above a huge pile of Hill Country Fair sodas, the HEB brand. In 12 packs. A quick mental calculation later, I decide that, yes, I could use 60 generic sodas. Of course. As I’m packing them in my cart, rescued no doubt from parking lot oblivion by some kind hearted employee, I notice a shelf of pickles. I don’t need pickles. I can’t remember the last time I even bought pickles. In fact, I think I might have a jar of pickles at home that may be old enough to vote, but I decide right there that I need those pickles…

45 minutes and $50 worth of merchandise later, I finally place a $5 pack of toilet paper in my cart. Finally, household shitting can resume.

I blame al Queda.

JrX

Don't forget to like us on Facebook!