Wednesday, December 15, 2004
So, went to Wal Mart today, what an adventure that was. It's gonna be a redneck Christmas in SLO, I can tell already. Not sure if the RV convention got out a little early or if ADA was handing out free screenings, but it's been a long time since I felt overly cultured walking around in the cloths I slept in. I don't deny that, either by ancestral lineage giving a sufficient blood quantum or through the process of acculturation, my own neck has often been seen as two shades darker then warm fuchsia. But lets just say that there was no wait at the line for those with Junior High degrees. Harsh, I know, but there should be a law against naming twin boys "Bill Lee Bob" and "Billy lee Bob."
Chef boy are you not
Was watching T.V. today and I saw this show, "Essence of Emeril." I though "Nasty. There are better ways of adding two teaspoons of salt to your meal." Actually, it turns out there's not. You should try my pasta. Works out pretty well with my new protein diet. My hair's shiny and my arms feel stronger already.
I actually did give a blind man a calendar for Christmas once. Luckily he didn't see the look on my face.
Just haven't had much luck with old people lately. So last night I'm in Vons doing some grocery shopping and I get to the toilet paper section. It's an entire freaking wall people, Vons carries more TP brands then hospitals do medicine. I, being down to my last roll and with my newspaper subscription not starting for another few days, figured I'd better pick some up. Now, a caveat: I tend to grocery shop slow. Mostly because I don't know what the hell I'm doing and feel like a blind man with a book of crossword puzzles whenever I go into a place that sells food. So, it is not entirely unusual for me to spend a good amount of time considering each purchase, all they while keeping a wary eye out for the manager who is sure to spot me like a homeless man in the lobby of the Ritz, knowing that I should only be allow to purchase food from somewhere where one speaks into a box with a gender-confused redhead on it. Such was the case when it came to buying a roll of disposable butt-rags. I meandered down the Great Wall of TP and picked up the first package I saw and put it in my cart. But then, like a puppy in a store window, I see another package boasting even better ass-wiping performance for a few pennies more. I think, "Hey, that's what money's for!" and I speedily pick up the new package and walk back to replace this shabby, second-rate model. But, lurking along the way is an entirely different manufacturer with their brand of quilted crap-towels vying for my patronage. Ooh, college has not prepared me for this. I eagerly look around for some type of literature to aid me in making a better informed purchase, but none is available. I stand there, panic-stricken, as other, more enhanced crack-cleaning materials begin to jump out at me from their homes upon the shelf. After a few deep breaths I slowly regained my composure and decided that I am nothing if I can not chose which form of turd-cloth to buy. So after another good three minutes of perusing the Wall, I narrow my choices down to two possible contenders: Quilted Northern and Cottonelle, from what I can tell, the Champions of crack-cleaning. I glance at them out of the corner of my eye, knowing now exactly how a superior court justice must feel, and heft them up and down all the while pondering if their claims of "softest ever" are unfounded, or if through modern science new breakthroughs in the field of softnessisity have been made. Here's where the old lady comes in. Now, I try very hard not to judge other people. I think I do a pretty good job of it too. I think I can honestly say that if I was coming down a grocery store isle and saw a young man with his eyes closed alternatively rubbing packages of TP against the side of his face, I would not immediately classify him as some vagrant devil-worshiping hooligan and give him the evil-eye look that that old lady gave me. She has a good 65 years of toilet paper purchasing under her belt, ahem, to help her make an informed decision and all too easily forgets what it was like in the early years of ass-wipe purchasing-much like veteran drivers often honk unnecessarily from their 82 F150's at cars marked Student Driver just to freak out the girl in the head gear because I-they forget all to easily what it was like to be that girl with external orthodontics. I mean, it wasn't like I was tasting all the different varieties of Flintstones vitamins on isle 12 again. Sometimes I just can't help but feel as I am directly responsible for furthering the gap between the young, and those they make fun of. Incidentally, I bought the Cottonelle 'with Ripples' because they have a picture of a puppy on their package and Quilted Northern has a picture of a little girl smiling and I don' know about yous but I'm completely cool with a dog watching me drop the kids off at the pool but I tend to draw the restraining ord-line when it comes to defecating in front of children.
Thought of the day:
If I was God, I would make puppies flammable. You know, just to dick with people.
Today I was stuck on register at Staples again, oh the joy. At one point it had slowed down and this old lady who looked like Moses might be in her yearbook, came up to my checkout lane. As she rounded the corner to my register her purse strap caught on one of the Dorito rack pegs. She didn't realize it and kept on walking until she did that, forgot to untie to boat from the dock-thing, and stacked into the side of the Coke machine. So the lady catches herself on the side of the fridge, knocking over half a dozen of those grab-N-go dorito thingies we haven't sold since, never, and I say the first thing that comes to mind-"Eaaasy there, turbo." I don't know why I called the lady turbo. I mean, at her age the excitement from the near-spill probably killed her before she made it out of the parking lot, I dunno, I never checked. The odd part was the people in the next checkout, instead of helping bungie-purse lady, just stood there staring at me like that time I dropped that baby. I mean, shit, how can something somebody said ever be worse then the thing itself? Sometimes people get more worked up over a reaction to a situation, then the events that transpired. Like that other time my coworker was walking around a corner and banana-peeled it on a transparency someone had left on the ground. I said, "And Todd goes down..." and the guy next to me turns to me and says "That's a horrible thing to say!" No, scolding me instead of helping Todd back up, was horrible. What I said, was funny.