Last Christmas, I Gave You My Cart

[Regifting… reposting… it’s all lazy, uninspired shit. And since there’s nothing I dislike more than websites reposting old shit, here’s a shot of Christmas cheer from a couple years ago.]

This evening, I made the unwise decision to join herds of holiday shoppers in search of saleable items to give others instead of time and love. While it’s widely acknowledged that the rules of the road have long since been abandoned by nearly all Americans – Arkansans being the only exception – the fact that shopping cart etiquette has gone to hell in a one horse open assbasket goes largely unaddressed.

So let’s address it.

Hey, lady with the hippopotamic ass in stretch pants, get the fuck out of the way! I understand you can’t support your own body weight and thusly you are doubled over the handle of the cart, breathing like a short-circuited vacuum cleaner, but that doesn’t mean you have to obstruct all traffic with the vacillating Christmas hams you call ass cheeks. Have you noticed that all customers in the Lego aisle have entered and exited at the opposite end? That’s because you’re lodged between the Star Wars and Harry Potter Legos at your end and haven’t even noticed yet. Just make sure you hit IHOP on your way to the Waffle House once your shopping’s done – the insulin surges are clearly working out for you.

Hey, middle-aged balding Euro-trash guy with the receding hairline, ponytail, and shitty leather jacket, get the fuck out of the way! You’re one-tenth the weight of stretch pants lady, yet by some Christmas miracle, you’re able to occupy more space than her as you swerve your empty cart unpredictably through the store while speaking into your cell phone at a deafening thunder-roar. Nobody is impressed by your Eastern Bloc accent or the profane body odor that accompanies it. Get off the phone, stop weaving through your imaginary obstacle course, and make a straight line for Bath & Body Works. Better yet, follow that line straight back to Croatia. Either way, keep yourself out of my path and keep your odious scent out of my nostrils.

Hey, submissive father with three out of control girls, quiet the Future Cunts of America club and get the fuck out of the way! It’s great that you and the girls are out buying Mom her Christmas presents, but it’s clear from your sunken shoulders and dead eyes that Mom has your penis and testicles in her purse back home. Actually, Mom, her purse, and your dick and balls are all at Bob’s house right now, and he’s in nothing but a Santa hat and your wife. But you won’t know this until she calls you his name during some drunken, unenthusiastic New Year’s Eve sex. But the fact that you’ve failed your gender, your wife’s New Year’s resolution is to leave you, and that all three of your daughters will eventually sleep with strangers on reality TV doesn’t excuse the fact that nobody can get by you in either direction because your all-vaginal offspring are swarming around the aisle, filling your cart with any items that tickle their fancies because they know Daddy is too sackless to exercise even a modicum of parental control. I’ve never advocated child abuse, but with this being the season of giving, how about a few jabs, an uppercut or two, and maybe even one great big haymaker?

Hey, adolescent girl driving the handicapped cart, get the fuck out of the way! I know, I know, I totally know. Your mom dropped you and your fugly friend off while she went to go anywhere you’re not for an hour. Now you’re really excited and can’t think of a better way to make your dumpy sidekick with even less personality than you laugh than some crazy shit like driving the cart reserved for cripples and the morbidly obese. I have news for your ninth grade ass; this is not how you rebel. Driving the cripple-mobile around Target doesn’t raise your status to punk rocker or Bam Margera. It makes you the annoying ninth grade girl at Target driving around in the motorized shopping cart, getting in the way of people with more than seven dollars in their pocket. I have more news for you; even when your boobs finally come in, your personality won’t, your sense of humor won’t, you still won’t be rebellious, and your chunky friend will still be the only one that likes you. Oh, and do something about your complexion in the meantime. There’s stuff for that in aisle fifteen.

Hey, old lady whose upper back is parallel to the ground, get the fuck out of the way! The reason you keep running into men, women, children, and product displays is because your arms are extended like Superman pushing your cart while you’re looking directly at the floor beneath you! How does one shop in such a condition?

“Aw, man! Great Grammy got me a chub-pack of maxi pads for Christmas. What’s a six year old boy like me gonna do with these? My vagina doesn’t even bleed yet! This is worse than the piña colada flavored massage oil and sandblaster she gave me last year!”

“Shush now, Johnny! You know your Great Grammy can’t actually see what she buys. It’s just as much a surprise for her as it is for you! Now hold your maxi pads up by the top of Great Grammy’s head and smile while Mommy takes a picture!”

Unlike Superman, who moves faster than a speeding bullet, The Hunchback of Elder Age moves slower than an amputee turtle. How are you alive? And why? Shouldn’t a bus you never saw coming have hit you by now? What’s it like to not have seen the sky in two decades? Can I hang you on my Christmas tree like an ornamental candy cane? So many questions! I will tell you this, though; if you don’t take your slow-creeping wrinkled ass out of the middle of the aisle and move it either to the side or to the cemetery, I am going to shatter your hip. Sure, that may sound violent, but all it takes is one well-placed “errant” toss of a Nerf football from the toy department and Great Gram-Gram is late for Christmas dinner. Alright little Johnny, run a flag route towards that lady that looks like a lower-case “r!”

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