I rather be beaten with a stick soaked in pepper spray while lying face down in a fire ant bed than do business with Mal Wart. The only thing I hate worse than Mal Wart is shopping. I know what I need, I know where it is, I know how much it cost, and all that’s left to do is go in and get it. Simple enough, right? The issue is there are people in stores. No, not the folk stocking shelves, and there sure as hell aren’t cashiers enough to go around, oh no, I mean customers. Those people, slack-jawed mouth-breathing cousin-marrying repetitive-head-injury customers, who have no idea why they are in the store, or that there are other people there, also.
More than anything else I have seen in my life, the way people behave when they are shopping bolsters the idea that we are truly screwed and cannot survive ourselves. People block aisles, they bring their crotch goblins in with them, and they act like they are all alone in their own private universe, with no one else trying to get in, get out, and avoid listening to their offspring sing the song of their people.
Just once, just once in my life, I would like to grab someone by the neck, lift that person totally off the ground about three feet, put my face as close to theirs as I could, and whisper, “Get the &^%$ out of the way, please.”
Physically speaking, that’s not likely. I would also like to invent a device that allows a child to breathe enough to live, but not enough to scream. Legally speaking, that’s not likely to happen, either.
And suddenly, Mal Wart saves the day?
As much as I hate it, I can sit at home, use my cell phone to put things in a shopping cart I don’t have to wipe down for Ebola and Goblin Snot, push a button, and then go to the Mal Wart parking lot, and they’ll bring my stuff out for me, load it into my truck, and I don’t have to get near another human being.
It’s a deal with the devil, sure, but it’s a bargain I am more than willing to accept.
Oh, and get this, they always put something in my truck I didn’t order or pay for. Usually, it’s like bathroom cleaner or something like that, but they did add a box of tampons last week. I left the box on the steps of the Post Office on my way home. Someone will find them and give them a home, so to speak.
Yes, I know. I know the arguments about buying local and I never buy meat or fruit or vegetables from Satan because it makes me nervous to think about some methed-up trailer park Goblin Hatcher walking around aimlessly for an hour then putting a container of chicken down on a sofa made by slave labor and some less than minimum wage worker restocking it the next day.
Yet, all the stuff I know I’m going through during the week can be picked up without me having to deal with other people. I always said I’d sell my soul to have that.
So I did.
Mike writes regularly at his site: The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.