I would like to nominate for a colossal cunting – that most eminent of cunts; the purpose-built, piss-kettle known as the supermarket.
There are so very many things wrong about this most unpleasant cunt of an experience that it only seems proper to begin where they all begin…….. the car park!
Upon entry into said park of cars, it would seem that most people (mainly in vagina-powered cars I hasten to add) lose any minor semblance of driving aptitude they may have possessed prior to crossing that threshold. White lines painted onto the asphalt to denote who does and doesn’t have right of way at a junction?……….. No it’s okay, you just drive right over them with no glance left or right and give a filthy look to the guy who just had to slam on his brakes, narrowly miss you and honk his fucking horn.
On a particularly busy day, it may be difficult to find a space that isn’t either narrow as fuck on account of the knobhead with the wide-as-balls, 16 plate range rover or the prick who just parks over the line so you can’t quite fit into the space without having to escape through the fucking sunroof (a thing for which my wheelie-shed KIA is sadly deficient).
Then there is the usual time spent waiting for some doddery, old twat to reverse out of a space which would have been safer to reverse INTO! Yes dickhead! It’s quicker and safer to reverse in and drive out you dumb fuck! You have better visibility driving forward out of a space!
Then when you do finally find a space in the MIDDLE of the car park right next to one of those perspex trolley parks (these spaces tend to be a little narrower), upon reversing into the space, what do you see in your rear view mirror but a fucking trolley?!……. you fucking lazy CUNTS! You are right next to the trolley park! And don’t play the disabled card with me – the disabled spaces are up at the front of the shop near the front door…… right next to the main trolley park. You are just a selfish, lazy fuck.
Okay so we finally reach the Mordor…….. I mean……. the front door. This part of the shopping experience is reminiscent of a scene from George.A.Romero’s Dawn of the dead wherein the living dead patrons are so keen to get into the establishment to forage for goodies but aren’t apparently in any great rush to reach said goodies. What you are met with is a slow-moving, ignorant cunt with no self awareness, peripheral vision or consideration for others.
This phenomenon doesn’t stop here however; it continues throughout the store. Need to walk down an aisle merely to reach something at the other end? Well expect the gormless bell-end walking down the middle of the aisle (with no hearing skills, peripheral vision or spacial awareness) to just stop out of the blue and force you to stand there like a cunt while it remembers where it kept it’s brain.
Maybe you want to get something from the small, narrow, reduced-to-clear section in the chilled department? Just wait a while so the selfish, greedy, middle-aged bint stands right in front of, and hogs the entire section so that you can’t even slot into one side to take a close look at what is there.
When you do finally reach the check-outs however, it’s either a long as fuck queue behind some dopey Cyril or Doris chatting with the equally old and slow-at-packing till-mong called Geoffrey or it’s a trip to the “express”, self-service tills – righto……… self-service tills it is then.
Now you have to go through the humiliation of putting your multiple bottles of beer through the scanner, only to be met with the deafeningly loud “APPROVAL NEEDED, APPROVAL NEEDED, APPROVAL NEEDED”…….. for every fucking bottel! ……….. all the while, the same breed of ignorant, old and middle-aged women you just tried to traverse and avoid are staring at you with utter contempt like you are some kind of scumfuck………… Yeah I have a drink problem, go fuck yourself! No-one else will you old hag!.
So when the creature allegedly manning the self-service tills eventually does come and give approval for the booze, they generally don’t even look at you anyway which makes me wonder why I waited in the first place – I’m a grownup, I can approve myself.
Finally there is the usual attempt to get out of the place behind, once again, some dippy old couple or some fat, smelly couple. Either way, I am glad to be out of there without any kind of criminal record. Please fellow cunters, reassure me that I’m not just some cantankerous, curmudgeonly misanthrope and that supermarkets and those who dwell within are actually cunts?!
Nominated by Two In The Stink