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Thursday, 28 June 2012

Weapon of choice
If, the next time I go into a supermarket, I get stuck behind two shoppers who are pushing their trolleys abreast of each other while chatting about fuck all I'm going to beat them to death with a frozen chicken. 
I despise supermarkets and avoid them in the same way that Mel Gibson avoids anger management therapy or decent film scripts. Yet today I was forced into such a store only to find myself plodding up n down aisles behind rolling roadblocks otherwise known as social fucking shoppers. I say social because these people go to the shops in the same way that most people go clubbing or dog-walking. You know, just for the fun of it. 
I've also noticed that this breach of shopping etiquette seems to be down to, sadly, women. Usually, in my gnashing experience, it's mothers and their grown up daughters, nudging their trolleys at an identical pace as if they are surgically attached, all the time discussing the undoubtedly gripping pros and cons of washing powder or Rich Tea biscuits.
What in the fuck is wrong with these people? For a start who in the giddy pits of hell goes to a supermarket for a stroll and a natter? Worse, which self-absorbed nutbags forget that they aren't the only shoppers in the entire building and that while they are twatting their way through their shopping lists, people snake queue-like behind them. Are these people so terminally insensitive that they'll hog aisle after aisle like Victoria Beckham being treated to a private opening of a Gucci store? In a word: yes. In another word: bastards
So I'm going to start ram raiding these shoppers of doom, scuffing at their heels with my own overloaded trolley until they hobble from the store, leaving me to do what I'm there to do: grab milk, run and get on with a far more interesting Tesco-lite life. Oh, and remind me to swing that frozen chicken around while I'm at it.


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