Kroger: The Grocery Of The Damned or Sir, I Don't Care To See Your Penis
I swear to you, I'm not meaning to steal Hutch's thunder with the Kroger blogging. But I just spent the most frightening and irritating 28 minutes of my week at the Hermitage Kroger, and I just have to tell someone about it.
First off, I think that for every time in my life that some person has looked at my Venus of Willendorf body and asked me "when [I'm] due" I should get one freebie of parking in the expectant mothers' space. Especially when there are three vacant ones. I never have yet done so, but there are times that I think to myself "Heck, I expect to be a mother some day" and wonder if that counts as well.
When all is said and done, discretion is the better part of my valet and I park in a fully-legal spot. Which is where this story gets interesting.
I go in, buy my pepperoni, mushrooms, salad dressing and Milk Duds and then rush out to my car. I need a bathroom and don't want to sully Kroger with my bodily functions. Only problem is there is now a guy beside me. We don't know him but we know him. He's driving a sportish car that he's gunked up with stickers to look more expensive than it actually is. Like we think if he has a sticker for Nos that his hooptie would actually make it in a street drag. Yeah. Uh-huh.
He then makes it halfway out of his space, just enough to be angled right.behind.ME. And then Oppenheimer notices the Sprite can on the top of his geniusmobile. Stop, open door, reach up to get the Sprite. Oh no! Guess what?!?! He knocks the can off the top of the car. (Keep in mind that while this comedy of error is going on, I have GOT.TO.GO.POTTY) Obviously this seventy-five cent can of soda has a Wonka Golden Ticket inside, because Oppenheimer decides to get out of his car, leaving the door hainging open, so that he can retreive it.
Only problem is that he's made himself extremely comfortable by unfastening his pants. He and I have a similar problem I guess. He meanders in his unfastened pants across the parking lot in search of his
A) He stands behind my car to wipe all the asphalt and gunk off it.
B) He opens it.
C) It sprays all over him.
(The spraying part did not lessen my bathroom need.)
So at this point I feel much like Alan Shepard on his maiden Mercury shot. Just as I was contemplating the Shepard Solution to my personal problem, my friend the soda sommalier decided to actually finish backing out of the parking lot so I could go home.
I swear I hate Kroger.