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August 25, 2013

TK goes to buy some pickles.

I understand the car salesmen, the ones who fill you in on everything you pretend to know while nodding your head affirmitavely, yet you’re completely lost in a maze of auto jargon like XZR400, fuel intake, and whatever the fuck an “engine” is. They make you feel like a complete idiot, because you are, but they help you choose a product that you had in mind and relatively stay within the boundaries you’ve set for them. Their assistance is needed by the majority of customers that enter their business and most of the time is sought out. This level of service is standard in its industry. It is not, however, required when it comes to buying groceries. All I did was ask where the pickles were. Having a stock boy try to up sell me from a jar of Vlasic Dill Chip pickles to a more expensive Claussen Kosher Dill jar due to their “crisp crunch” and “less tangy afterbite” is not only unnecessary, it’s also one of the more bizarre encounters I’ve ever had in a supermarket. This includes all the times I went to the grocery store with my mother when I was little. You see, I use to have an obsession with grabbing older ladies butts when I was in public, and a trip to the grocery store meant game time. A trip to Dominicks on a Sunday afternoon was pretty much my Super Bowl. It was definitely more embarrassing for my mother to have to look at these ladies after her child sexually assaulted them than it was for me to just calmly walk away. I loved it. I’ll take a handful of old lady butt over having a discussion about pickles anyday.-TK