A Day At Walgreens
Ran into an interesting situation the other day: While on an excursion to my local Walgreens, a refrigerated display case immediately before the register advertised the fact that you can purchase a 20 oz. bottle of Coke for $1.19. Not out of the ordinary by any means. But, on an adjacent display case (unrefrigerated I might add) there sat 2-liter jugs of the same soda, priced at $1.19. Now, am I to believe that a few degrees' temperature difference is to blame for the financial disparity that I witnessed? No. I am not to believe this.
As my curiosity began to get the better of me, I inquired of the check-out lady as to the soda inconsistency. She seemed to be taken aback by the question, but her annoyance soon vanished. I could see her ire turn into pure, seething rage before my very eyes. Her brow furrowed, and seemed to increase in hair density for some reason. This may have been an illusion, but an effective one nonetheless. A wicked sneer spread across her once-inviting face, and her nametag no longer read "Leslie," but morphed into "Lex Luthor." I was face to face with Superman's arch nemesis.
Luthor looked into my eyes, and I was helpless to his smoldering, masculine charm. I knew he was reading my thoughts, or what I like to call my "Mind Diary." The time I ate ice cream out of the dog's bowl, the time I raped that hobo, even the time when I didn't cut the grass for two weeks, nothing was secret anymore. I fell out of the trance, but before I could escape he stabbed me in the left tricep with a large knife that he had whittled down into a smaller, sharper knife. My arm burned, like the feeling of being hit with a poison arrow by a Cherokee Tribesman in the dead of winter, after being spotted attempting to steal his cattle (children). I countered with the only item I had in my basket, a mace. Not that shitty little aerosol container filled with peppery water, but an authentic, medieval, motherfucking mace. Two spikes caught the flesh just under his cheekbone, only centimeters from his aorta. He let out an inhuman, almost demonic bellow, and with one swipe the counter came crashing down around the mace, swinging like a pendulum, covered in flesh and muscle-y things. I was caught off guard when Luthor then abandoned more complex, psychological tactics, and punched me in the ear. It was a fairly successful move, as my balance was thrown off to the extent that I collapsed onto a massive wooden shard from the freshly broken counter. The wood protruded a good foot-and-a-half out of my right thigh. Trying my best to fight through the pulse of blood that was escaping by the second from my wound and into the aisle, I reached for a Dale Earnhardt lighter that I noticed only inches from my outstretched hand. Luthor looked to the sky (ceiling) and let out a triumphant roar. "ROOOAAARRR!" he said. I seized this brief opportunity to grab a bargain box of post-July 4th firecrackers, and used the lighter to melt some chocolate bars into it, disguising certain death as a tasty treat. After igniting the fuse, I lofted the entire box, grenade style, into the general area of his face. It somehow managed to land directly in his gaping mouth and was swallowed soon after. With one rapidfire explosion after another, his esophagus was ripped apart in a terrible storm of splintering vertebrae, and rupturing tendons. His body then slumped over what remained of the desk, still spewing wet innards out of the tear in his neck. His head detatched, fell, and became impaled upon the large, wooden sliver still projecting from my limb.
"When you play with fire, you get burned," I delivered in a deep, Chuck Norris-like tone. I pried the skull off of my leg and prodeeded to wedge it forcefully into the fluorescent Walgreens sign.
Having solved the mystery of the mispriced soda, I returned home to make myself a grilled cheese.
*may have been fictionalized
posted by Arthur Croft Yates @ 8:12 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home