Price Costco.

It's a big, huge, festering machine of high prices for ludicrously
large amounts of shit you don't need and no-name stuff you do need,
it's filled with idiots whose sole purpose in life is to make this
harrowing experience even LONGER, and they're all lookin' out for ME.

You drive around huge galley, viking-longboat karts around with
wheels that have long since forgotten what it means to *turn*, and
all this in alleys large enough for two reasonable people to pass
and where one daydreaming asshole can easily block the whole flow
of traffic while he's making sure he's not paying an extra dollar
on that kiloton of toilet paper.

And, of course, these shopping karts with cancerous gigantism can't
even hold *half* of what you have to buy there to make the whole
trip and that fucking little priviledge card worthwhile.

And the aisles are alive.  They move without telling you.  You come
around with a list, an actual fucking LIST, which to this mass of
morons must be a revelation akin to Moses brandishing his tablets,
and yet the careful time-perfected itinerary I've crafted falls to
shit because the stuff I got there last time isn't there anymore,
but somewhere ELSE for no reason whatsoever.

It's like every thursday afternoon the guys driving around those
miniature cargo zambonis get together and play tag with the produce
a couple hundred times until they've successfully wrecked the
entire flow of the place as far as sections go.  These are the kinds
of guys who can destroy your Rubik's Cube in three moves from the
perfect color-per-side to a jumbled mass that takes you ages to put
back together again.

The one thing that doesn't change, of course, are the emplacements
of the free trial guys and gals who assault you alternatively with
low-fat nutribar 1/16th pieces and cups of lighter fluid with some
new antifreeze shit.  Pick ONE FUCKING KIND of produce.  I'm
already swerving to avoid airhead morons driving backwards and
pulling off drifts and powerslides with my Empire State Building's
Big Brother Kart that F1 pros would be *proud* of...

...and the LAST thing I fucking need is someone shoving chocolate
smudges in my eyes and making me drink cups of fucking antifreeze
so I can buy shit that's not on sale, but that's NEXT TO something
else on sale so by the time I'm at the register I'm too fucking
tired to change it.

I'm not even touching the whole register experience.  Mile-long
lines that trail back to the fucking entrance made up of airheads
who don't realize they're kinda blocking off every single other
person that's trying to get on with their overpriced oversized
shopping.  And thank HEAVEN that guy at the exit is there to check
over my stuff, because I could've smuggled a 12-foot-fucking-CUBE
of tissue boxes under my shirt and not paid for it.

*wheeze* *pant*


			-Alexandre van Chestein
				havoc@videotron.ca