Going to the grocery store is a pleasant way to toss away your money while you shiver in what truly is a large refrigerator, looking at colorful things that grow in dirt, or pieces of animals who have offed their skin and other parts we shan’t discuss.
Then there is Mr and Mrs who stop almost everyone because they think we aught to enjoy their silly conversation.
The special couple, of whom I speak, caries the name of Jeles, and who’s Christian names ruined Christianity. Perhaps you know them? Well, if you don’t, drop to your knees for your blessings and genuflect in front of the radishes.
As a man who sees God as a nuisance, I don’t genuflect, but Mr and Mrs don’t know one way or another. Sometimes they ask if we are this or that, asking if my wife still wears all that stuff. What stuff? I don’t know what the heck they mean, so I just smile and say sure she does, but not on Wednesday. That’s the day she washes her naked body.
I continued to tell them, I wash only in July in the belfry, while I slosh down great amounts of holly wine until my body is red. It’s then all the men sing old MacDonald to bless the dead animals. Then we have a BBQ.
Mrs turns her head with tears flowing. Mr consoled her, his arms around a body that must have driven here in the back of a pickup.
I expected him to hit me. He’s a big guy. But, he didn’t, but he did give Mrs a tissue to wipe her eyes, then released his arms from Mrs Buffalo and turned his attention toward a large collection of wine bottles.
Mrs Buffalo, much to my chagrin, took over the conversation. Yes, her dog has died. I heard all about it. Yes, Hazel Bloom lived to be five years old. Maybe because his mistress ate all the dog food.
I’d say Mr should have ditched the wife and had the dog stuffed, or better yet, stuff both of them. Easy to do. Mrs is already stuffed.
Dear God, they said it in chorus. They did have the dog stuffed! But they still bought dogfood in Hazel Bloom’s honor.
I suspect there is another reason. I could smell it on her lips from several steps away.
At that moment the grocery manager walked quickly and stopped close enough to get a good look at my nose, along with cop who also stopped way too close to the front of me.
“What the hell? Do you want?” I had to ask.
The manager took a deep breath. “Mr. Lumbinsky, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
By this time, the cop was right beside me and starting to drool.
I gave it the usual crap. I didn’t do anything. You can’t toss a paying customer out, etc.
“Have you been in the men’s room lately?”
“What of it?”
“You wrote things on the wall”
“I was trying to help!”
“By leaving a note to our Employes!”
“Oh, don’t be so picky.”
The manager turned to the cop. “He wrote, Employes Must Wash Their Hands Before Pulling Up Their Pants, and that’s not all. He also wrote, Be Careful Where You Step. The Manager Has Diarrhea. And there’s still more. His Wife Will Show You Her Tits If You Ask.”
“That’s a lie! You don’t have to ask!”
It was then the grocery’s manager shoved me down, flat on my back, which I knew he would. He also kicked me. Twice! Before the cop could stop him.
The cop had to arrest him. No choice. Second time he has appeared in court. First time he paid me a nice amount. This time, my wife and I should be able to take a nice cruise.
He also got fired. You think I could get to know the new manager?
Stop by.
