Christmas

Christmas, a time for celebration sharing and the joys of the supermarket gridlock.

Those of who enjoy meandering to a standstill and parking their trolley horizontal in the aisle whilst they stop to consider the discount on spinbin full of fucked Whoops sticker loafs, whilst a tailback of a hundred other frantic shoppers mentally project the words “Move you daft fuckmonkey” in their direction. Or perhaps deciding that now would be a really awesome time to have a catch up with a family of fifteen that you’ve not seen since last Christmas, yes let’s get Ashingtons answer to the Walton’s to form a fucking rugby scrum on the cereal aisle just because it’s Christmas and no ones in a hurry.

A time for the wise to open the freezers up to grope every single frozen turkey in there to weigh up which one is the biggest, when it’s quite clear the fattest turkey in that freezer is the reflection of the cockmunter holding it open whilst letting out enough cold to give the store it’s own weather system and entice a swarm of confused penguins into the pizza aisle.

The time to use the fast lane with a basket so full the handles are stretching so it’s trailing along the floor, threatening a near avalanche of groceries to tumble forth “Yes, I agree, you should have got a fucking trolley” instead you engage in your own festive game of grocery Jenga and cause the already stressed out robotills to blow a fucking circuit when you slam down your mountain of Christmas tat and proceed to scan through a years worth of shopping in an area the size of a phone booth whilst poor R2ShopD2 has an electronic hernia trying to cope with it all.

A time to ask the checkout operators “Has it been busy?” Whilst a queue the size of a small moon snakes around the store behind you.

A time for said checkout operators to ask “Will you need bags?” As you push three trolleys full of grocery’s towards them. “No thanks, I’ll just balance the whole lot on my fucking head, and if I get really stuck I can always ask Yoda to use the force and float the fucker over to my car, which incidentally I’ve had to park so far away I’m going to need my fucking passport to get back to it”.

A time for Charity collections on the EXIT so that when you are visibly struggling with a hundred bags in each hand, arms stretching like Mr Tickle, they shake their boxes in your face “Yes of course I will, lucky for you I’m a fucking octopus so I can not only carry all this shopping I can also rummage around for some change in all of my pockets at the same time, and yes, I do want a fucking sticker”.

A time for other cars to park so close to you, you have to break open the Chrismas goose fat just to lube up your thighs and kite so that you can slide into the car before executing a 436 point turn to exit whilst an impatient mingehead behind you shakes his head while he waits for your space “I’m sorry, not all of us fly a fucking harrier jump jet and can manoeuvre out with such ease”.

Happy Christmas, it’s going to be great.

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