No where in Western civilization has excess been more purified, ratified, and vilified than at Cosco (Sam’s Club for those in the South). Val sent me on a honey-do excursion last night to pick up baby formula… I thought, “Perfect! I can get some eggs, water, and dried fruit for the diet.” $100 later my life was changed for ever.
Unlike previous trips with my family, meandering through four story isles of bulk paper towels and five gallon jars of pickles, this trip would’ve made the Man Show highlight reel. Just image a speed-walk racer on meth, airport walking with a cart only Michael Keaton in Mr. Mom could’ve appreciated, and the background scene supplied by the Beyond Thunderdoom when the crazy mohawk munchichi dude gets 187’d by the train… you’ll have a good visual of my trip to Cosco last night.
I was slicing through the flow of cart traffic like a LAPD motorcycle cop getting his first cameo on TruTV – taking the corners on two wheel motion! Dane Cook ain’t got nothing on my Tarzan boy skills; climbing the four-hundred ton Incan tower of 36-pack Kirkland bottled waters like a rabid spider monkey, skowering the stake for the most virgin of packaging. The poor lady in the wheel chair who I gave a sharpened elbow quiver might still be lodged between the Gatorade and CranApple pallets. This night I was en fuego!
The water was bush league, I might as well been born on third thinking I got a triple because it was nothing compared to what laid ahead… the blue hairs on motorized carts in the fiber section.
…to be continued
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