My mission is to make it to the downtown Shoprite where I will buy coffee for $1, sneak back for a free refill, and read all the newspapers for nothing. In my retirement I have officially become disgustingly unethical.
I could choose the uptown Shoprite, but that would negate the challenge of zigzagging through miles of lane closing cones and workers in hardhats and yellow vests standing there sipping coffee.
Seven years they have been repaving, digging up old pipes, laying down new pipes, resurfacing, filling potholes, soaking up millions in Federal funds on this endless Mafia project.
Fifteen minutes into a massive back up, going nowhere, I curse my stubbornness. Nightfall, that is when I will get to this supermarket, the only one stocking Pringles new honey mustard potato chips.
Someone needs to set out on a mission into my brain, penetrating my scalp, seeking one dendrite full of common sense. It's not enough for me to scrub out my tub and mop my floors. To clip my toenails. To tackle that smell behind the refrigerator. I had to push past my limits with this hellish trek. If my car overheats, I'm going right after the yellow vest guys, no matter how big their forearms.
No comments:
Post a Comment