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Get in line!
"I really need you to pass to the supermarket."
"Yeah, no shit. What kind of stuff?"
"I already sent you the list. It's in you direct inbox on Instagram?"
"I believe I didn't understand a single word of what you just said."
"Just log in and check it out. Bye."
"No, wai-- Ah, screw you, too, very much."
And with that, he slaps his work phone close (he stills has one of those phones that has a flap) and puts it in his pocket. Then, he pulls out his new-gen phone, which he can't begin to understand how it works, and logs into Instagram. (P.S.: His username is @hateful_unicorn.) He swipes through some 56-shot selfies before realizing the Direct icon is just at the top. He sighs in utter despair and taps the icon. And, of course, it's the freaking longest list you'll ever see (well, actually, you won't). Ranging from milk to an unpronounceable thing he assumes it can only be some type of disgusting vegetarian dish, he takes the nearest detour and heads for Buy & Co., the biggest, most asshole food and others conglomerate you'll ever know (I have to stop doing that).
When he reaches the parking entrance, he encounters your oh-so-typical line to get in; as any proper moron would do, he tries to cut in. This is where the madness begins.
"Hey, get in line, you idiot!" complains an angry, obviously Southern, pickup driver.
"Sorry, I don't speak hillbilly."
"The hell you said to me? Come at me!"
"I think I'd rather get my parking ticket, thank you."
With a swift maneuver, he positions himself before the so-called hillbilly, receiving one hell of an ignored hatred speech. He pushes the button, a ticket pops out the groove, the automatized barrier rises, he crosses and the barrier comes down once again, separating the mad from the insane. Who knew that piece of plastic could be so important?
Once that line is over, more lines await. Lines to park, lines to wait for the parked car to get out so that an unparked car can park and so the rest of the unparked cars can move and so look for a parked car which is looking forward to unpark so that they can park and thus achieve the status of parked. How beautiful it is to invent words. And confuse people.
As a firm believer that people can shove parking etiquette right up their *censored*, our main man goes around the whole parking lot, so to -his name is Wallace, by the way. I don't think I mentioned that - find the perfect parking spot without having to wait for the unparked cars to... You get the idea. Inevitably, the insurrectionists pay; the prize for skipping line after line was the presence of-
"Hey, man. Free spot here. Hey, hey, over here. Hey!"
-that guy who insists on insisting that you pick the parking spot he appointed as the best of the best. And it usually is, but you don't want to give that smug son of a gun the satisfaction of picking your spot for you. Wallace drives slowly, in total parsimony, next to the blissfully ignorant man, who believes he will be rewarded for his services. He lowers the window.
"I think I'll pass," followed by a frenetic stomp on the gas and driving away.
The poor, confused man, traditionally called "viene viene" in my beautiful mother tongue, looks at the fleeing car in agony, only being able to emit a couple of fairly extended monosyllables.
Where's the Goddamn paprika?!
"How would you like to pay, sir?" asks politely the lady at the counter.
"I asked you where is the paprika," responds Wallace in anger.
"I'm afraid we're not accepting American Express right now, sir. Do you have any other form of payment?"
"I do, but I'm not here to pay. I'm here to ask you where is the paprika."
"Ah, so you have a question. I see."
Wallace waits impatiently for the woman to respond, but she just stares back at him.
"And what is your question, sir?"
Wallace turns around.
"Does anybody, anyone that isn't a retard, know where the paprika is?"
"I see you have a question, sir," says a taller, if slightly less idiotic employee. "I'm afraid you have to get in the 'Costumer Assistance' line."
"I am the only one here."
"Sir, I don't appreciate your tone and I'd appreciate if you--"
"Fuck it and you, I'm finding it on my own."
Wallace storms off. The two employees remain unaffected.
"Now that I think about it, we do accept American Express."
Vegan Atheist Crossfitter
Wandering through the countless halls of Buy & Co., Wallace actually managed to find some inner peace, particularly in those deserted aisles and when an older woman ran over someone's foot with her scooter. Ah, that's the dream. The best part about it is that no-one, not a single person, would man up and tell the woman to be a little more careful. Something polite, anyway. After walking for about twenty minutes, he found himself in vegan paradise. The "100% Organic" labels were abundant; the "Trans fat-free" stickers reached out as for as far as the eye could see; gluten, ironically, was nowhere to be seen.
Wallace kept thinking: 'Just grab the weird, shitty ingredient and get out of there before anyone sees you, especially if said anyone is a German. Those are the worst.' It was a long thought, but he kept repeating it nonetheless. Not even Wallace dared to face a vegan, let alone if he was German.
Luckily, it didn't take him long to find what he was looking for, still unknown to him what it actually was, and got out of there as soon as he could. Corners, however, are another story: a treacherous one. Out of nowhere, a wild German appeared, in all its boasting, gloating glory.
"Gut, ich thought ich was the only one here, which made me lose hope in the vegan community. What are you carrying there?"
"I'm sorry, I need to--"
"Ah, lobenschlatz. Zat is one of my very favorite ingredients. I'm vegan, by the way."
"I know, you told me."
"I don't think I did."
"You heavily inferred it."
"Zat is not ze same thing, is it, Fraulein?"
"I'm a man."
"And I'm a vegan German atheist who does crossfit and doesn't care what you think."
"Oh, fuck you, you Goddamn nazi."
"Vat did you say to me?"
"Out of my way."
Wallace pushed him and got out of there as fast as he could, while the German spat out German insults in heavy German accent. Nothing against the Germans, just the vegan ones.
The Checkout Line
He had made it. Somehow, he had insulted everyone that crossed his path and left unharmed from every encounter. Insulting the German was a whole new experience to him, an exhilarating one, if he was being honest. The only item he hadn't been able to get was the longed-for paprika, which he found out eventually, but someone had taken the last jar of the red, dusty nectar before he got there. Aisle 18, was that so hard? Only one person stood between him and the escape from this terrible paramo of social death. The man in front of him unloaded the last piece of inventory left in his cart. Much to Wallace's surprise, it was the jar of paprika. Maybe the last one, but he couldn't know with absolute certainty.
"Guess I know who got the last jar of paprika."
"Sorry, bro, I just love some good ol' papri--"
As the man turned to talk to Wallace face to face, they simultaneously realized who they were actually talking to. For Wallace, it was the hillbilly; for the man, it was the idiot that cut in line and insulted him.
"Well, well, well. Look what we've got here."
"Oh, I was just leaving, actually."
Basket in hand, Wallace turned around; unfortunately, the only thing his terrified eyes were able to distinguish was that red sweaty sleeveless shirt that he had seen before in vegan paradise. He raised his head to witness a ball of German fury standing right in front of him.
"You are not going anywhere," said the German in threatening tone. "Ve have business to attend to."
"I'm afraid you'll have to get in line for that, pal," responded the hillbilly.
At least they remained civilized, even when planning to beat someone up. Oh, what a terrible day that had been.