GROCERY GAMES

My Trip to The Supermarket Left Me Badly Bruised

At least I found spotted dick

Authors’ note: Regular readers of mine know I can be a bit sarcastic and unrepentant regarding my humor. That said, enjoy!

I prepared for this trip. I was ready and knew I could do it! As I got out of my car, I looked around. There were young and old, short and tall, slim and not so slim. But worst of all, I saw fucking Boomers everywhere! There were a few Gen Zs, Millennials, and Gen Xers mixed in, but it was a sea of blue hair and wrinkles. I’ve seen fewer wrinkles on a Shar Pei.

“Holy crap. Where did they all come from,” I asked myself.

Nonetheless, I steeled myself for entry. “C’mon, you old fart. You can do it!”

I had to take the plunge. I stepped inside. The chaos had already begun. I was in the grocery store on a Monday.

People with carts were lined up, waiting for the person in front to move their carts just a few inches, getting ever so near the checkout.

Sure, we had a little snow, but the storm had passed.

“You don’t need bread and fucking milk, people,” I muttered under my breath.

Too late. The bread aisles were stripped bare of baked goods — just a few crumbs left from the last fight over day-old English muffins.

I rushed to the milk aisle. I needed half-and-half for my coffee. The refrigerated cases were almost barren. I kicked the canes out from under some geezers who refused to make a path for me. Ha! They fell like dominoes. I would have cream for my coffee today.

The chaos around me continued. An old man in a motorized scooter knocked down an elderly woman reaching for some toilet paper.

“Not today, you old broad,” he yelled as his cart ran over her ankle.

I looked down at the pathetic, scared soul on the floor. She looked at me, pleading for help with her eyes.

“Not today, Bitch. I gotta wipe my ass, too,” as I stepped over her to reach for a 12-pack of Charmin.

“I got your bitch right here, sonny,” as she” whipped her cane upward, nailing my twin boys with one shot.

Doubled over in pain, I looked at her as she rose. Then the lights went out.

When I came to, I learned the old broad kneed me in my forehead. The paramedics were still dressing my wounds when I leapt up.

“I still need toilet paper, dammit!”

But it was too late. All that was left were a few rolls of single-ply generic toilet paper. But I had to have it. My ass will never forgive me.

I groaned all the way to the meat department, hoping to find a few meager scraps to put dinner on the table. I was bloody but unbowed. I found liver, tripe, black pudding, and other odds and ends, like, spotted dick.

“Am I in fucking England?”

I looked down to see if I was wearing ruby slippers. I wasn’t. At least that old broad didn’t drop a house on me.

I made my way to the checkout. The old bitch with her cane was in front of me. I grabbed my crotch for self-protection. She looked at me and guffawed as she left.

When I got home, my daughter declared she was starving. I put two cans of Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli and the spotted dick on the table.

“Dig in,” I said.

If you’ve read this far, thank you for stopping by. Lay 50 claps on me and comment if you would please. I will return the favor. Cheers!

I accept tips, which go directly to Dining for Hunger, a recognized 501(c)(3) organization that looks to end food insecurity. If you can spare a dollar or two, I’d be grateful.

More stories from Bruce Coulter.