Okay, I understand accidents emenating from the innards of the human being, but lastnight, I was shopping for some much needed groceries. See, I am notorious for not doing this until my fridge throws out a hearty echo when I open it and blurt out, "OMG, why hasn't someone gone shopping'? So I make my list. I make sure I have all my fruits and meats, and treats, etc. It's almost 10:00 at night. On the approach, I was really worried the store would have been closed. Much to my excitement, it wasn't. I love Superstore. Open til 10:00.
For those unfamiliar with shopping on a shoestring budget, this would be the store where the customer has to bag their own groceries. Moreover, we have to bring our own bags. Presidents Choice aren't killing ducks at least. First aisle I hit up, of course, is the fruits and vegetable section. See, almost 10:00 at night? My thinking is, 'all the crappy rotten stuff is left, but if I get there quick enough, I might bear the fruits of my labor'. Sure enough, for 3.88, I grabbed the nicest flat of blueberries I have ever laid eyes on. Plump, rotund, and blue. Actually they're more of a purplish-hue, aren't they? Anyway, before I know it, I'm being surmounted by a 50 year old hippie woman with home made dregs and hair that probably hasn't seen a shampoo bottle since Woodstock. Course, the traditional Willie Nelson braid was present, too. This woman stunk to high heaven. I mean, scented candles would have waved a white wick. She stops, dead in her tracks, and glares into my shopping cart like she's just seen Janis Joplin's face in my apple pie. She looks up at me and says, 'you know, those look good, but they're not pesticide free. It's really not natural to see berries that big.' Now, here's where I'm thinking I've just seen berries that big - - she's got 'em. I just smiled and moved on.
Minutes later, I've found myself doddling down the refrigeration aisle. I'm looking for some vanilla frozen yogurt, and some frozen bagged berries. I love a good smoothie before bed time. I'm smiling ear to ear, because one aisle over, I had just scored the deal of a lifetime: the large containers of flavored yogurt for only 1.49 each. I loaded up. My smoothie has new life, baby. I'm halfway down the refrigeration aisle and I see the President's Choice Vanilla Frozen Yogurt. Nowhere does it mention 'Low Fat', but I don't care. It's only 5.49 a bucket. Well worth the extra 25 situps I have to do in the morning. Then, out of nowhere, Ms. Patchoulie comes walking past, and once again, there's something in my grocery cart that catches her diminished capacity. (Kids, marijuana slows you down, remember that). She literally grabs my frozen yogurt and says, 'You must know somebody else who can shop for you. These people use anti freeze in this stuff. It's not natural frozen yogurt."
At this point, I've just about had it with this Bohemian Dragon Lady. I know she was referring to diethyl glucol. I also know she's talking about copius amounts that were found in a bucket of ice cream many years ago. It began a mini-urban myth. Some companies did, in fact, put that stuff in their ice cream to prevent freezing, but they put Piperonol in there too; the stuff to kill lice. I happen to know there is no trace of this stuff in my frozen yogurt, because it is my frozen yogurt not my frozen ice cream. (Which is kinda redundant, don't you think?). The process of freezing yogurt and manufacturing ice cream has gone through a major overhaul since original Volkswagen vans, and this woman must have been smoking up when monkey turned to man. I don't know.
This time, I told her, 'It's frozen yogurt, ma'am. It's not Ice Cream. And this is not 1982". She glanced over and realized she had to move one fridge down to peer at Ice Cream. I felt like saying, "Hemp Popsicles can not be found in this store, lady." But I didn't. I waited til her eyes abandoned my presence and I darted away like a rabid ewok on a Speeder Bike. Except my grocery cart is much slower, of course. No sooner did I get to the next aisle, she was coming down the opposite end, heading straight for my loot. She passed by on a tight corner and let go the loudest fart I have ever heard. I mean, this sonic boom was something of legend. And, since it was right at the corner of the aisle, I'm positive there were people in the checkout aisle who felt this blast of sonic energy.
I turned around to see her linger at the Old Dutch Potato Chip Shelf right at the front. I hurriedly continued down the aisle from whence she came. OMG, she must have been letting them loose the whole way down. I have never smelled such vindictive wind in my entire life. Could I have been smelling her entire collage of daily diet? I swear rank pork rinds were in this force field of madness. Maybe rhubarb and haggis, too. I'm not sure. I had to get out. The unfortunate part of this episode; she aromatically destroyed my favorite aisle - chips and munchies were off my shopping list, at least for this night.
I began my trek back towards the tills. This venture had me heading down the diaper aisle. How ironic. Once I got to the till, I went reaching for my own plastic bags, which I kept underneath the cart. When I came back up, enjoying every milli-second of fresh air, I glanced over my shoulder and there she was! Out of 4 other tills, Queen Blow-A-Toot took up residence right behind me. Jesus Murphy, why wasn't I thinking? My next door neighbor has access to Scott Paks. Had I only known.
Gawd, I can't tell you how fast I was trying to get through this till. The smell became fresh in my nasal cavity again. I couldn't figure it out. It originally hit my passages three aisles and 4 minutes back. Why was it still here? Why does she carry such force? Then, it happened: She reached for tic tacs, and let fly again. This time louder. The 20-something girl working the till immediately stopped tossing my products down the belt and turned to look at me. Her face turned as red as the tomatoes I did not buy. A crooked smile protrudes from her face. It hits me, 'she thinks I just did that'. I don't know what color my face was, but I'm betting I could have beaten her reddish-hue.
The only thing I could think of was - hurry and get to her left side of the till, cuz the smell would be coming from Queen Blow-A-Toot's general vicinity. So, I made the brazen move. I was right. The girl at the till continued to look at her right. I was not there anymore. And, yes, this wretched woman did, in fact, let fly with two other sonic booms that had just as much propulsion from her ass. It was like she was gassing everybody out due to our ignorance of natural alternatives. It was wrank. Almost violent. I really felt like puking right there, but I thought, 'geez, I ain't bagging that stuff myself'. It took everything in my power to hold back. Once I was done, it was 2 minutes ahead of 10:00. I really hope someone told that hippy-chick closing time meant between her legs, too.
I understand accidents emanating from the innards of the human being, but we can feel it coming on, people. Go to the washroom for pete's sake. There was no way she was suffering from colon paralysis. I've never heard of that. This woman would have blown up college dorms everywhere back in the day. Blue Flames be gone. This woman would knock out the sense of smell on G.P's K-9 Unit collectively. Bring your own bags? Bring your own couthe and whoopie cushion. I think I'll get my chips and munchies somewhere else, thank you.
