Hey Chris’s Internets!
I’m Crissy, from Crissy’s Page.
Don’t let the name fool you.
I’m a very big deal.
I was going to write about how I can never find a pair of underwear that fits nicely, but that’s too girly of a subject because things can be sort of testosterone-y around these parts.
Speaking of testosterone, it smells like stale L’Homme with an undertone of balls over here, doesn’t it?
And what’s this huge black dildo doing here? It can’t be Ari’s. This thing would impale the poor girl.
I can’t say I’m surprised. I had my suspicions, what with his love for Madonna and his taste for expensive suits and his fussiness about how his t-shirts fit and his intense fear of moths and everything.
Anyhooter, Chris likes to rant a lot and stuff, so that’s what I’m going to do too so you don’t miss him too much.
So I’m at the grocery store and I’ve got one of those self-scanner things where you scan your store card and you win a chance to carry a gun and do all the work yourself with your very own scanner and bag your very own groceries as you go.
This is supposed to make shopping Fast and Easy.
And it would be if the fucking things worked right. Maybe it’s because my daughter is always hurling them out of the carriage.
I have no idea.
So I was having a particularly tough shopping trip with my three-year-old and just about everything meant to be convenient and easy was broken and fucky particularly the self-weigh produce scales and so I wound up weighing a lemon but taking a cantaloupe but so. what. It’s their fault for having shitty scales. And then the scanner gun thingy tells me its battery is dying and that I had to go get a new one so I did, but that meant I had to unpack all of my stuff and rescan everything.
I may or may not have gotten it all.
I was pissed.
And my kid was all “let me out! I want to talk! LET. ME. OUT. OF. HERE!!!”
So I finished my painful, painful, shopping with little miss screams a lot and I go to the self check out and I scan the thing and the card and the other thing and find my coupons which were buried in the bottom of one of my repacked bags and I scanned the first one and the fucking machine freezes.
So I press the help button and the light on the top of the self check out is blinking, blinking, blinking, helplessly away and clerks and cashiers are walking by and chewing their gum and picking their asses and I’m still standing there and the thing is still blinking and I’m wrestling a 27-pound octopus who is trying to score herself a bag of M&Ms and also trying to commit suicide by jumping out of the cart and
NOBODY IS COMING TO HELP ME.
So finally I have to shout and I don’t like to shout because I’m the Queen of Fucking Everything and The Queen should never have to shout.
But I did. I shouted.
“EXCUSE ME! I’VE BEEN STANDING HERE FOR LIKE FIVE MINUTES NOW AND EVERYONE IS IGNORING ME.”
And finally some teenage girl schlubs over with her attitude and her blue hair extensions and her keys and gives the machine a hand job and then left me to complete my purchase without so much as an apology or a free bag of Cheetos.
The rest of the transaction went pretty okay but I was still irritated to shit and so I signed the credit card signature pad “Fuck You.”
Childish and immature?
But it was satisfying Internet.
It felt good.