Hello Surf Reporters! While I’m off sobbing uncontrollably into a Dell laptop, guest posts from talented folks who have never written WVSR guest posts will appear here. Automatically and without my involvement, as if by insidious chickenfoot voodoo. This first one is by frequent (and hilarious) commenter icecycle66. I know you’ll enjoy it, so,,, enjoy! -Jeff
When Jeff asked me to go ahead and send him some drivel to pacify you beasts, I had to make a choice. Do I send an accurate but slightly less blood boiling take on being a first time film producer or play it safe and explain the story behind the rage boner pic I texted to him a few weeks ago.
I felt that he was due an explanation for filling his phone’s memory with pictures of what could easily be confused as glamour shots of tater-tots.
I don’t go out in public often, on account of my furious and incredible hate for the great majority of humans. However, to make sure my caretaker Mrs. Cycle continues to bring me peanut butter and toilet paper, I’ll go grocery shopping with her once a month or so.
Since I don’t go to the store every week, there are often sweeping changes that confound and frighten me when I do go. It could be a giant cubist interpretation of “The Scream” made only with cases of Mr. Pibb Xtra or a store rearrangement so drastic that there are now table saws and golf balls where the ham used to be.
For instance, I was minding my own business walking to the back where they keep the flavored milk when somebody started screaming at me from a television.
Had I stroked out there for a minute and wandered into the electronics department? Had that free thimble of apple juice I drank a few aisles back been laced with some horrible auditory hallucinogen? No, I could only be so lucky.
It seems that there are now television sets bolted to the end caps of some sections. They’re triggered when you walk past them and the Aryan poster child within starts yelling about jarred tomato sauce and a matching noodle set. The person on the screen went on to explain that I had never had real pasta sauce until I spent money on their pasta sauce.
I stood there for a moment, considering whether I would be sent to jail or just have to pay for damages if I starting smashing the accusatory television into its component parts. Just then, another monitor screamed at a freshly frightened man a few aisles up and broke me from my fantasy of destruction.
This new automated terror was nothing compared to what was soon to come: actual, forced, person-to-person contact with other customers.
Somewhere in the “Oh-God-No” section, that’s down in the middle of the “Accepted Racism” aisle, there was a rack of various grains and sauces jutting out into the traffic zone. It was not one of the tiny wire racks with chip clips and can openers hanging off it. This was some intentionally obstructive semi-circle coming out about a foot and a half into the cart lane.
There is already hardly enough space in those aisles for two lane traffic, now they have to close a lane for barley and wheat germ? That is unacceptable. People were smashing into each other and getting their carts jackknifed against the pickled pig’s feet and dehydrated shrimp whiskers.
It was pure horror of the highest order. I tried to turn back, but several carts and a Rascal motor scooter were already jammed up behind me. It was like my own made to order Hiroshima. I had to leave the cart and push past some squishy old woman dressed in bed sheets.
After this pathetic display, my wife told me to just go hide in the back of the McDonalds at the front of the store until she came to get me.
I was like a retarded eight year old in an airport at this point. Wandering glass eyed and horrified to a familiar beacon in the distance.
En route to my safe haven of dehydrated hamburger and golden fried salt, I came across the last of my enemies that day.
Near the front of the store, by all the seasonal candy, there is an aisle loaded with 20 pounds sacks of rice and gallon sized grape jellies. I guess some people can’t pass the background checks and polygraph tests necessary to be admitted into elite market clubs such as Sam’s or Costco. My local Chinese Slave Camp Superstore decided to appeal to these grocery club outcasts and stock a limited selection of enormous novelty size foodstuffs.
There were barges of mayonnaise that could drown a horse.
A police officer’s week supply of tiny powdered donuts, it had a great big “1 Whole Ton” sticker on it. Buckets of lighter fluid with pump handles and spray nozzles clearly being marketed to the obsessive-compulsive warehouse arsonist. Cotton balls by the bushel and Mexican candy by the case.
There was a bin near the end with big feedbags hanging on a hook next to it. When did buying beans by the shovel load come back into vogue?
I think I may have passed out at this point. I, I don’t really remember a lot after that.
Have you guys ever avoided a place for so long, that upon return, its various changes left you disoriented and angry to the point of panic ? Or is that just me?
I listened to Meat Puppets while I wrote this. Go listen to the Meat Puppets.