Shoplifters of the world
Unite and bend over
If I go to Hell... Excuse me, let me rephrase that. When I go to Hell, I'm sure the Great Lake of Fire will come in the form of a supermarket. You cannot honestly tell me you don't feel that the inside of any given Wal-Mart, Ahold, Tesco or De-fucking-laize is not the viscous vortex, the wretched wormhole to pure evil. The aisles are just narrow enough to make you touch icky strangers. The voice that announces your meat is ready at the butchers, could just as well announce that they are ready to butcher you. Hey you, be a happy consumer. Three bottles of wine, two peanuts for free. Taste our new dog food. Useless shit, now only 9.99!! Get fucked now, pay 55.99 for the rest of your life. And to top it all off: check-out. I was in the basket-isle. The purpose of this isle is to let Übermenschen like myself speed out of this Babylon before the mongoloid mongrels suck us in to their demi-monde for good. Its purpose is not to let semi-dried up eighty year olds fill tree baskets with more rubble than you could find on Ground Zero, September Eleven 2001, 14:00PM; dislocate their osteoporose shoulder dragging it to the check-out before spending the average lifespan of a parrot looking for a one euro centcoins. I was number 38 in line... All of a sudden lady number 37 realised that she forgot earplugs to plug her husbands nostrils, so she wouldn't hear him snore.
"Sorry sir, could you watch my stuff," she said. About three hours later, she came back (I was up to number 34 by now).
"Where's my Boursin, my bananas and the shoe polish I left."
"Woar wfhat?" I spat. "Waim fhorry, m'am, bwut ifts wuude to cut fe laain. Aiif neffa feen woe before."
Okay, the shoe polish will probably explain why I've been on the toilet the whole evening, but I will go trough a lot of shit if it gets my out of a supermarket.
Unite and bend over
If I go to Hell... Excuse me, let me rephrase that. When I go to Hell, I'm sure the Great Lake of Fire will come in the form of a supermarket. You cannot honestly tell me you don't feel that the inside of any given Wal-Mart, Ahold, Tesco or De-fucking-laize is not the viscous vortex, the wretched wormhole to pure evil. The aisles are just narrow enough to make you touch icky strangers. The voice that announces your meat is ready at the butchers, could just as well announce that they are ready to butcher you. Hey you, be a happy consumer. Three bottles of wine, two peanuts for free. Taste our new dog food. Useless shit, now only 9.99!! Get fucked now, pay 55.99 for the rest of your life. And to top it all off: check-out. I was in the basket-isle. The purpose of this isle is to let Übermenschen like myself speed out of this Babylon before the mongoloid mongrels suck us in to their demi-monde for good. Its purpose is not to let semi-dried up eighty year olds fill tree baskets with more rubble than you could find on Ground Zero, September Eleven 2001, 14:00PM; dislocate their osteoporose shoulder dragging it to the check-out before spending the average lifespan of a parrot looking for a one euro centcoins. I was number 38 in line... All of a sudden lady number 37 realised that she forgot earplugs to plug her husbands nostrils, so she wouldn't hear him snore.
"Sorry sir, could you watch my stuff," she said. About three hours later, she came back (I was up to number 34 by now).
"Where's my Boursin, my bananas and the shoe polish I left."
"Woar wfhat?" I spat. "Waim fhorry, m'am, bwut ifts wuude to cut fe laain. Aiif neffa feen woe before."
Okay, the shoe polish will probably explain why I've been on the toilet the whole evening, but I will go trough a lot of shit if it gets my out of a supermarket.
LMAO.
Naughty Biet. Ever read Paul Mennes? I think it's Soap where he has a go at supermarkets, though of course you did it much, much better.
They are hell. They are.
Posted by
Piglet |
19 October, 2006 08:15