Supermarket Folly

Written by nigmuncher

Friday, 16 October 2009

image for Supermarket Folly
Not a 4WD

Supermarket Folly

Doesn't it just wind you up!

I pulled into the local supermarket, you know, the one the starts and ends with 'A'.

I found a parking space at least within the same time zone and caught a tram to the front door.

When I got there I saw 'fatso' in his 4Wd parked in the disabled bay. He was about as disabled as I am: and I had just laboured with Ranulph Fieness across a couple of time zones. I bloody hate that. Disabled bays are for disabled people. These poor buggers have to struggle across miles of congested car park because some big , fat inconsiderate bugger in a 4WD that has never seen mud in its life, can't be arsed hauling his, or her big, fat bulk across couple of hundred feet of tarmac.

Anyway I do my shop: you know the kind of thing: bread , stella, tea, milk, stella, loo rolls, stella, sugar, stella and a couple of bottles of rioja..just to be posh, and arrive at the check-out..that is manned by Himmler.

'Do you want a lift with your packing?' 'No'

That's bloody fatal. That's the cue for them to hurtle things through the till and chuck them at your poor, unprotected knuckles as you try to open those god awful bags that defy all attemps to open: at least by us blokes.
Anyway, I manage. But that's not the end of it. As you try to pay. The next person in the queue has muscled in between you and the till, so the it is impossible to, pay, present your card, insert your pin.

So by this time you're a bit fed up

'I'll be out of your way in a minute, love' you say, in your best sarcastic tone.

Believe me, you aren't equipped to deal with this lot. And that's the old red rag to a bull.

This enormous tart in the standard 'Dobber' uniform of short, tight T shirt and too small, over washed , skin tight pants. Nicely set off by a pair of yellow knickers, turns to her sister .They are identical except that the sister is about seven stones and obviously has bulemia,or a serious crack habit. And says.' We got a f*****g comedian here'. Now my dad, who, been dead for years, bless his wee bum, was a local headmaster and a very funny and articulate man, used to say that excessive swearing was the sign of a mean intelligence and a lack of vocabulary. This sod was twice the size of me so I wasn't going to argue the point.

I get outside. Its pissing down and I have to walk miles to my car, but fatso is still there in his 4WD, waiting for his wife, who has probably got her continent sized arse stuck in those stupid 'in-out gates they have in supermarkets nowadays. What's that all about? If you wanted to go 'out' through the 'in ' door, you just need to wait for someone to come 'in' through the 'in' door then go out through the 'in' door…simple..

By this time, I'm wet through and fed-up….But, like everyone else haven't said anything to fatso, whose nice and dry in his big, fat 4WD

I Want More Beer!!!!

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

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