Written by Rhodester
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Saturday, 29 September 2007

I went shopping with Mrs. Rhodester recently and spent the better part of the evening in a Target store while she grabbed a cart and zipped away, which to me is kind of like waiting in a Doctor's office for a rectal exam - I know it has to be done but, in the end, it's going to cost a small fortune and I'll be walking funny. The reason I walk funny when leaving the Target store is that they have these hard plastic seats in the snack bar that kill my butt and it's kind of hard to walk to the car when you have a dead butt. I must sit in the snack bar seats though because, upon entering the store, I peruse the electronics department before heading to the music and DVD section and after I've checked out these areas, which takes about ten minutes, I go sit down. Only an hour and a half left!

I'm not so out of shape that I NEED to sit down after ten minutes - it's just that there's no point in wandering around looking at toothpaste, lamps and clothes for the duration of my visit. I'd rather sit up front and watch people come and go, and the only seats available are the snack bar death seats from hell. When we entered the store and split off to go our separate ways, she headed for the clothes while I headed for the electronics, and she was still in the clothing area when I sat down in the snack bar. I know this because we have cell phones and I called to let her know where I was, just in case she suddenly decided to grab the first thing she sees and then - HAHA! - check out.

But she won't do that because we need things, and SOMEBODY in this family has to invest some time into finding them before carefully scrutinizing one brand of product against another in a side by side comparative analysis to determine what's going to be the best deal, and then return to the shampoo section just before checking out because we'd forgotten the conditioner. Yes, I said WE, because apparently I can forget all kinds of things as I sit right there in the snack bar section and watch people come and go.

I must give her props, or kudos, or whatever one must give one's wife when she works so hard to get the best deals AND makes sure we have what we need AND she reads my articles. Yes, I would certainly not be the best candidate if our two cats held an election and decided which one of us was going to go to Target for kitty litter and cat treats. If elected, I would grab the first bag of kitty litter I see and, upon zipping home so that I could go online and stream music videos, it'd be discovered that the kitty litter was made of radioactive waste material with chunks of broken beer bottles mixed in. The cats certainly wouldn't go near it.

On the other hand, if she was elected to go get the kitty litter, she'd spend at least a half an hour determining which size to buy after having first calculated the matrix of sand balance to clay integrity along with the rate of absorption factor. She'd settle on the imported cedar chips with alabaster sand that had just arrived from Morocco and costs about $22.00 for a half pound bag, which, by the way, the cats won't go near either.

After I'd been in the snack bar for a while this last trip, my cell phone rang and it was her, calling to tell me that she had everything we needed. So, I rose from the plastic death seat and, after tossing away my empty coffee cup, orange juice carton, two pizza plates and one blueberry muffin wrapper, I waddled to the check out stand to meet her. The 17 year old cashier, who REALLY enjoyed following the rules, informed us that she couldn't sell us the bottle of Merlot that my wife had carefully picked out because she was only 17 years old and you have to be 18 to sell alcohol to people. I told her that it's not really alcohol, it's MERLOT, but being the good girl that she is she didn't know the difference and we had to wait for the 72 year old man to come and ring us up, and he walks really, really slow. Didn't these people care that I had a dead butt?

We eventually got home and got the new Moroccan kitty litter poured into the pan so that the cats could sniff it before going off to pee on our bath towels. Good thing she had shopped carefully, and bought the right kind of cat pee stain remover.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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