Friday, September 3, 2010


Pondering Plight

I: Excuse me ma’am, could I help you with that?
II: No, I’m quite alright.
I: You sure?
II: Yes, very much so.
I: But it looks like you’re having trouble loading your car with all those groceries…
II: Actually, I’m not. So please leave me alone.
I: Listen, woman, I’m just trying to help you. You’re old and fragile.
II: What was that?
I: You heard me correctly. You are terrible at loading groceries into your Volvo station wagon. I am here to help.
II: As a matter of fact, young man, I am a rather able-bodied and independent woman who can take care of herself.
I: I beg to disagree. Actually, I don’t even beg – I’m offering you a statement of truth. You need my assistance and you’re going to take it.
II: How dare you treat your elders with such disrespect!
I: Why do you think I’m supposed to automatically respect you due to your age? We don’t live in China, ma’am. This is America.
II: Goddamn kids these days. You’re a prime example as to why this nation is going down the toilet.
I: You mean, “shithole?” That’s the modern term, Miss. Get with the times.
II: Why you little son of a…
I: Bitch? C’mon now, you can do better than that. Haven’t you been reading Urban Dictionary online? Maybe try catching up on some Ebonics? Are you familiar with the term?
II: What?
I: Exactly. You’re an ignorant imbecile who sits in her house all day and looks forward to shopping for outdated groceries that have no relevance to our nation’s contemporary cosmopolitan diet. You’re basically a plague to the evolving society that is America, which constantly strives for the bigger and better lifestyle necessary to lead this global clusterfuck of a civilization. So while the leading individuals of our fine and dandy country give each other congressional hand jobs under the table in Washington, you’re here lobbying for the pork barreling of, I don’t know, manufacturer’s coupons for Depends and Stouffer’s frozen dinners. Don’t you realize that Swanson is better anyway? Where have you been living? How have you been living? Do you even have Netflix?
II: Net… flicks?
I: Jesus. Even he can’t save you now.
II: Now how dare you speak the Lord’s name in vain! Why…. why I should wash your mouth out with--
I: Soap. Listen, I got it. You’re predictable. It’s okay – you’ve been around for however many overly vapid years, living in bumblefuck-who-gives-a-fuck-ville by yourself and your two cats named Oskar and Wild. You’re a crazy old lady with no drive and no desire to do anything other that crochet and call your long lost children whenever you shuffle past that old family photo from ages ago. Don’t act like you don’t know the handful or so you keep strategically placed about your house. For example, the one that is probably 50 years old and is not only dusty beyond belief, but the brass has tarnished over and now mimics an 11th century Viking relic? That’s the one I’m talking about.
II: Why… how did you…
I: Because you’re you, woman. You’re that typical old lady that comes to the grocery store every Wednesday afternoon around 3PM, just after the chain of soap operas for the day finish up and Trebek comes on to whet the pre-prime time lineup, just hours before you decide to light up the stove for supper, put on your dowdy evening dress and make a cup or two of that shitty Lipton tea you’ve been drinking since you were 28. And then? After supper you “treat” yourself with a few scoops of pudding, or Jell-O, or maybe even that disgustingly gloppy ice cream you buy from the local drug store because you think the man behind the counter is “cute.” But guess what? He’s not interested in you because he’s already been through three failed marriages, has five kids dispersed throughout the country doing who-the-fuck-knows-what, and he gets his jollies off looking at young teenage girls who come through the store trying to buy beer for the high school parties a few blocks over in the upper-middle class neighborhood you vehemently despise. And you know what? He sells to them because he likes looking at them lean forward at the counter as they dig into their Murakami Louis Vuitton purses for the allowance money daddy gave them earlier in the week. And they giggle. A lot.
II: Oh my.
I: Yes, oh my.
II: Well that’s quite a--
I: Fucking. Epic. Tale. Yes it is.
II: Well… um. So I suppose I could use your help after all. These cans of soup are rather heavy.
I: Yes, they are.
II: *Woman moves aside*
I: Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate your cooperation.

“A farmer that grows food to sell and not to eat is a thief.”
- Rick Bishop, Mountain Sweet Berry Farms

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