4:21 p.m. - 2005-01-18
Four items. FOUR.
As we approach the checkout, we see lines snaking into the produce department. This is an ominous sign. We secure our spot. At this point, I am carrying the 24-pack of Mountain Dew. However, we are in an EXPRESS LANE.
The people in front of us were a little confused by this concept. There were five of them, to wit: a rotund white guy with bad teeth and a worse complexion, probably mid-to-late 30's; a white woman who looked to be in her fifties, whose ass didn't match her upper body; two teenagers who looked biracial; and one child under the age of five, who looked like the most intelligent of the lot.
We were unable to determine the relationship between these parties, other than that the rotund guy fathered the young boy.
Anyway, I think they had 20 items EACH. Said items included various stretch garments and partially eaten beef jerky. There was much ado about who was purchasing which items. Further, there was much ado about retention of receipts, price of items, not giving items to the child, etc.
Remember. The whole time this is transpiring, BFRB is lugging a big jug of OJ, tortillas and cheese, and I am supporting a 24-pack of Dew.
The cashier was little to no help in expediting this process. Her name was "Bliss". I shit you not. And we can attest to the fact that she must have been experiencing some type of chemically-induced bliss, because her every move was in slow motion.
At last, the trailer trash in front of us purchases their last item and begins meandering slowly toward the exit. We are finally temporarily relieved of our burdens. "Bliss" seems unable to locate the bar codes on these four items. Finally, they have been scanned, and she puts the tortillas, cheese, and OJ in one bag. (All I can assume, after my last two experiences, is that they have been told to conserve bags whenever possible.)
As we are finally making our way out of the Empire, longingly thinking of food, alcohol, and nicotine, we again have a close encounter with the trash. Rotund Man is sneaking back into the store to purchase some sort of "surprise" for his child.
We practically sprint to the car (I knew all that exercise would come in handy someday) and hurriedly cross the parking lot to Chili's, where we order large drinks and commence chain smoking until our food arrives.
Can we tell I'm done working for the day?
I have a lot to do, but my brain is not cooperating. It keeps staring at the same page and neither absorbing it nor entering the information in the requisite document.
Tonight is the REALLY REALLY REALLY LAST EPISODE of "The Biggest Loser." I can only hope that one of the cool people wins. I will really be pissed off if another jackass (like Aaron or Dave) takes home the prize. It will utterly destroy my faith in humanity.
(And that would be such a tragedy, because I have so MUCH faith.)
Finally, I would like to say to my buddies…I am not ignoring you. I'm reading, I just have not had time to comment. This "work" shit sucks. On a stick.