Sold on Sam's
So, I'm shiftlessly rooting around in the fruits aisle of Sam's Club -- or maybe it was the Brobdignagian Meats aisle - all you and your 50-foot-tall hubby and clan can chow down on. I know it was near the wines.
A woman cut a sharp corner and bore down at produce apparently relevant to the vector I was headed in.
I could see she wasn't about to slow down. Her cart was Loaded for Bear. Two or three young giants tagged along behind her. All gave me the battle cry look: "You are no match for us. We shop at Sam's. We eat at Sam's. We roll over unexuberant types like you with irrational exuberance. Eat our dust."
They got to whatever it was they so desperately wanted. I had no urgent agenda. Yet something in the woman's expression, imaged in her young'uns, said Bush. Said cowpoke. Said "This is eye-raq and we're having it for breakfast."
I pulled out my 45 and shot them. Her first, then the boys. Blood spouting from heads lent a dusky pallor to the melons, or loins of pork, or whatever they were.
Clerks from the butcher's dept., and from hardware, and from electronics, converged on the scene.
"I'll pay for it," I said, meaning the damage.
"You won't leave without it," said one fellow in a white butcher's frock, bloodied and slimed by tussels with tripe, concatenations of saucisses.
No free lunch at Sam's.
At checkout, I was presented with a bill for $4,687. For the pleasure. It seemed fair to me. And I had to sign a waiver holding Sam's free from harm in case any legal muscle -- or the woman's husband -- ever thought to sue them for damages.
I signed and told them to ship her cart to her home.
I used to think Sam's was just another bogus merchandising outlet. Now I know better. I'm sold.
7:59:11 PM 
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