Vertically Challenged

I've decided that, while it may not be proof-positive you're a moron, the fact that you do your shopping at a convenience store displays a tendency toward the moronic. Indeed, there seems to be a mathematical relationship: the more frequently you shop at a convenience store, the higher the likelihood that your personality is skewed toward the defective end of the scale.

Now, dear reader, I realise that this statement represents a rather sweeping generalisation, especially given most of the population have, at one time or another, shopped at a convenience store. Therefore, let me demonstrate the truth of my thesis by regaling you with examples from my own experience as a humble convenience store employee.

The first type of moron I call disabled parkers. Not, I hasten to add, because they happen to suffer the misfortune of being disabled; rather, because their brains seemingly cease to function as soon as they drive onto the forecourt in front of the store. And this brainlessness manifests itself in the way they park their cars; they are seemingly unable to park in anything like a logical and reasonable manner. Hence, disabled parkers. These are the people who park vertically in the horizontal parking bays; and who park horizontally across the vertical bays. These are the people who think its perfectly appropriate to park where there are no parking bays at all: in front on the security bollards near the front entrance, for example; or across the driveway providing access to the fuel pumps. These are the morons who take no account of the fact that parking bays are provided for a reason: to ensure that all stationary traffic not actually parked next to a fuel pump is safely out of the way! No kidding, I wish I had a buck for every time I've shaken my head in disbelief over their escapades: I'd be a rich man by now. Maybe even rich enough to compensate for the ulcers I'm developing as a consequence of contemplating their stupidity.

The next species of moron I call whingers. There are two types of whingers: those who complain about the prices; and those who moan because such-and-such a product isn't in stock. Both do so on a regular basis; indeed, so regularly that you could set your watch by them. The same day each week, the same time each day, in they trundle to complain about the same thing they've always complained about. You're much more expensive than the supermarket! Really? Well, then, f**k off to the supermarket! You don't have any widgets in stock! Really? Maybe that's because we've never had any f*****g widgets in stock! Lord forgive me, but I've almost succumbed more than once to the temptation to strangle the living crap outta these morons. Why can't they appreciate that a "convenience store" is "convenient" because it's local and open - not because it has the economies of scale to carry a wide stock range or the "cheaper" prices you'll find at the big chain stores?

A third variety of moron are the pullers. Now, I know what you're thinking; and while it may just be possible that these selfsame pullers also practice self-abuse in the store's public toilet, that's not why I've given them this particular epithet. No, these morons are so called because when they encounter the store's locked security door (it gets locked after a certain time at night in order to ensure the staff don't bunk off for a smoke behind the car wash) their midget-sized brains tell them: hey, that door's locked - better pull HARDER! No kidding, some of these prize fools have almost pulled the door off its hinges in their desperate attempts to get into the store (and complain about the prices and/or our pitiably small stock), all the while valiantly ignoring the clearly visible sign instructing them that, should the door be locked, they need only ring the bell in order to gain access. Of all the classifications of moron, the pullers exert a kind of compelling fascination: you can't help but wonder what passes through their pathetic excuse for a mind as they yank away - what, at any rate, compels them to persist in tugging at a door that clearly won't open. I don't think congenital stupidity - or even anything as mundane as plain, old drunkenness - resolves the conundrum; I think their idiocy approaches depths that are truly existential.

There are many, many more classifications of moron. For example, the jerks who think it's okay to jump-start their broken-down vehicle while it's still parked next to the fuel pump - clearly, heroically ignoring the fact that sparks and fuel vapour don't mix. Or the related delinquents who think it's okay to ignore the prohibitions against smoking or talking on their mobile phones while standing at the fuel pumps. Or the tools who, because the store is located on a relatively busy intersection controlled by traffic lights, are intent on saving a whole 2 seconds travelling time by tearing across the forecourt in order to avoid having to wait for the lights to change, somehow by the grace of God narrowly avoiding collisions with every other vehicle - and pedestrian - on the forecourt.

But I suspect you're starting to get the picture, right?

Anyhoo, while I'm prepared to concede that while not everyone who shops at a convenience store is in consequence a moron, there does seem to be something about the experience that insidiously, ruthlessly destroys the brain cells, rendering the victim a zombie disguised as a consumer. And for all I know, the malaise could be entirely localised: once they leave the store's bounds, maybe they revert to normal, intelligent, thinking human beings. Maybe - but maybe the effect is permanent. Forget swine flu - conveniencestore moroniosis could be the biggest thing to hit humanity since the Black Death.

And as for the effects on the people who work in convenience stores - well, I'll leave that to your over-active imaginations!

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: See the happy moron, he doesn't give a damn; I wish I was a moron - my God, perhaps I am! (Anonymous)

Bitter Sweet

This old fart was - for one, brief, bright-shining moment - a happy old fart indeed.

The attentive among you will remember that Yours Truly works a couple of nights a week at the local servo in order to make some sort of contribution to the household finances. And it was in this capacity that I recently made a discovery that temporarily warmed the cockles of this old, cold heart.

Maybe it was due to the fact that it was late at night, it was near the end of my shift, and I was dog tired. But having completed my shift duties, and with not a customer in sight, I was drifting listlessly up and down the aisles pretending to check that the stock was correctly arrayed on the shelves when suddenly I spotted them. There, in the midst of the confectionery were three relics from my childhood that I had never thought to see again.

A Chokito bar. A Polly Waffle. And a Peppermint Crisp.

Now, in case you're wondering how it is that my life could be so empty as to result in my going all gooey over three chocolate bars from my childhood, you have to understand a couple of things. The first is that, given the modest economic circumstances in which I grew up, in which 20 cents could by you a positively ginormous bag of mixed lollies (and how could it fail to do so, given most of them were priced at half a cent each), these chocolate bars were the creme-de-la-creme of confectionery, a legendary and only-to-be-longed-for indulgence which only the super-rich could afford. The second is that, as a child, a Chokito bar or a Polly Waffle was an adult treat (the fact that they were mostly consumed by teenagers was a moot point; to get your hands on one was to be grown up), and so had an added prestige beyond their actual worth.

Of course, once I actually did grow up (and, yes, I'm aware of the body of opinion out there that suggests this is an event yet to be accomplished), these things lost their allure; and gradually, the products themselves seemed to disappear from the shelves, fading into the golden afterglow of my childhood memories. So you can imagine my surprised delight when late on this particular night, I saw them sitting once again like golden eggs amid the monochrome glow of confectionery wrappers.

Naturally, I grabbed a fistful of each and, as soon as my shift was over, transported them home in a rapture of joy. And that, alas, is when the dream died and reality shot home with maliciously gleeful vengeance.

The first thing I noticed was the size. Or, should I say, the distinct lack thereof. Size may not matter for other things (at least, that's what I've heard; I wouldn't know, personally), but I can tell you, when it comes to a Polly Waffle or a Chokito bar, size is everything. While still in their wrappers, nothing seemed amiss. But once my trembling fingers had removed the product from their glittering foil sheaths, an involuntary gasp of disappointment escaped my quivering lips. The emaciated excuses for chocolate bars I now beheld were positively tiny. Okay, I could still see them with the naked eye - but that was the extent of their extent. What had once been massive logs of chocolate and nuts and waffle and nougat and caramel were reduced to pathetic imitations of their former selves. These weren't chocolate bars, they were chocolate fingers - and skinny ones, at that!

I was devastated.

But what really killed off any lingering hopes for the revival of a treasured childhood memory was the taste. Again, though, this was a concept encountered in the negative. By taste I mean the distinct absence thereof. Where was the smooth texture of chocolate? The sweet bite of the fluffy nougat? The unique, only-vaguely-describable-as-caramel swirl of the Chokito's filling? The crunch of the nuts? I don't think I've tasted anything more anodyne since the last time I walked into a certain well-known fast food chain that begins with "M" and ends in "cDonalds" - and that was years ago! Sheesh, it wasn't even like I was eating plastic - plastic would have tasted much better!

So next time you want to know why I'm so bitter and twisted, this is it. Not only have precious childhood memories disappeared from the world - they've been resuscitated into a hideous, zombie-like corpse. It's bad enough that the world was robbed of Polly Waffles and Chokito bars and Peppermint Crisps in the first place; that they've been adulterated into bland shadows of their former selves is a crime against humanity.

Well, my humanity, at any rate. And once I've finished bashing out this post, I'm going to email the International War Crimes Tribunal at The Hague - I want to know who's responsible for this travesty. And I want them to spend the rest of their lives in solitary confinement, up to their nose in the refuse of my ruined dreams. And then I want the punishment to get really harsh.

Bamboo stalks under the fingernails should do the trick. And then something seriously vicious: I'm going to force the perp to consume their own product.

Or would that be going to far?

Talk to you soon,

BB.

Quote for the Day: Childhood: a series of happy delusions. (Sydney Smith)