"High Times and Grocery Shopping"

So I finally got around to seeing “Pineapple Express” this weekend and my mind started to wonder like Helen Keller trying to play laser tag. Back to the good ol’ days in college when inflatable pools in the front yard were acceptable in the neighborhood and grocery shopping was sometimes an adventure in itself. In fact, going to the grocery store could become a very dangerous and difficult mission if you got "in the mood" before embarking on your grocery expedition. This my friends is an epic tale about a man, a plan, excess meat, The Asian Lady, and an awkward moment with a hunting magazine.

“I wonder if I I had the opportunity to suture my weiner inside Eva Longoria’s vagina for 3 months if I would do it. I mean, it'd be cool to have sex with her for that long, but where would I pee?”.

Sadly, this is what I was thinking about on my way to the grocery store that fateful Sunday afternoon. As most of you know, your mind tends to think irregular and bizarre thoughts when it is “in the mood”. All I'll say is that this particular December afternoon, my mind was pretty dazed and confused. Hazy or even "smokey" you could say.

My overly excited dog stuck his head out the window, staring at everything like it had morphed into a giant set of boobs.“Stir Me Up” softly echoed in the vehicle, while I turned into the Kroger parking lot to do my first “check the scene” lap. This is something I typically do when I’m “in the mood” to make sure I am aware of my surroundings. That way I don’t flip out if a circus clown happens to be handing out balloons at the entrance. Unexpected circumstances are very very bad. And I say first, because sometimes there can be three or even four “surveillance laps”, depending on how into the "mood" I am.

I finally find a spot and park my car, check three times to make sure my car is actually in park, turn off the car and unknowingly leave my keys in the ignition. Doors unlocked of course. As I’m walking towards the store, an elderly, Asian lady gives me a smile. But she gave me the kind of smile that is just long enough to make me feel uncomfortable and convince myself that I might know her. Two seconds later and approximately one second too late, I stutter, “Thank You.”……

Thank you? Really? At this moment I saw a "little" school bus at the corner pick up a group of children and I seriously contemplated joining them. Why the fuck did I just tell that lady “Thank You”? How hard is it to just keep looking forward and move along? And if you have to creep her out, at least remember to say “hello”.

After berating myself for thanking a strange Asian lady for smiling at me, I direct my attention back to the grocery store entrance. However, I make it about 30 steps inside the building, when I am stunned. I surveyed the layout of the parking lot before going in, but I couldn’t have seen the disaster awaiting me inside. There before me stood at least a half dozen girl scouts asking me to buy their goodies. I completely panic and I can feel the hateful wrath of the queen mother girl scout burning a hole in the back of my head with her laser eyeballs. I tell them I will buy some on the way out, which I completely had no intention of doing so, and step away. Funny though. As I turned around, I noticed the mother scout was actually a pleasant older lady that just smiled and said thank you. I guess her eyes weren’t hate lasers afterall.

I paced up and down aisle three five to six times, trying to remember what my purpose of being at the store was. But after an unexpected stop at the Lunchables display, I found the meat aisle and scoured the lineup of beef. You know when you see a dad at a pizza place that is waaayyyyy too excited to be there? It's probably because it is the poor guy's first enjoyable night that he gets to enjoy a couple Bud Lights and slices of pepperoni pizza pie, because he hates his wife and job. When you see this guy, you swear to god that the guy is convinced that breadsticks are the fountain of youth. Well, that was me. I was so fucking excited that I creep out the young lady next to me by muttering too loudly, “Beef, It’s what’s for dinner” under by breath and giggled to myself like a retard that shit his pants. I can’t decide on whether to go with the New York strips, the pork chops, or the cheese filled bratwursts. I buy all of them. Remember, I am only going to be cooking tonight for two people, but, as usual, the thought of running out of food is too much of a potential disaster to risk. I You have to understand that I do the same thing every damn time I’m out to eat, by purposely ordering more than I can consume, so I have some to take home with me for a "midnight snack". Basically, I'm kind of like a squirrel. But with OCD problems, centering around food addictions, while maintaining a larger set of testicles.

I'm sorry. Damn Hellen Keller playing laser tag again. Back to the adventure. With a cart of meat, I grab a few potatoes casually from produce without any troubles and make a right-hand turn, heading home to the check-out line. However, ominous trouble lurked around the corner and disaster ensued. Not a giant women with karate skills attempting to rape me. Not a conversation about politics with JaMarcus Russell. Worse. I saw a neighbor of mine heading my way. Usually this wouldn’t be a problem. Hell for 99.9% of the people in the store, this wouldn’t have been a problem. But I’m “in the mood” and I have no fucking idea of what this particular neighbor’s name is. So I make the most logical move I can think of. I take a quick dive into the magazine stands and grab the very first magazine I can get to. Just when I think I’m gonna be cool, I hear a familiar voice say, “I didn’t know you were into hunting, man?” Oh shit he found me. After giving him a strange “Heeeyyy you”, I looked down at the magazine I had grabbed and my nuts shrunk like overly-chewed pieces of bubble gum. “Hunting Magazine”. I’ve never shot a damn thing in my life. Not even a beebee gun. Now this neighbor thinks I'm Yosemite Sam. Good God. Now he’s going to be constantly asking me to go on hunting trips and think I am a rude prick, because I don’t ever go. In reality it is because I truthfully don’t know a god damn thing about hunting OR fishing. Problem is, how the hell do you tell someone that you grabbed a magazine to read so your neighbor wouldn’t bother you?I can’t, so I just mutter something about “bucs” and “bang bang". Things get really weird. He starts telling me about this new rifle he got and I try to act like I’m interested, but I can’t figure out what parts of his sentences are the parts where I need to act interested. I sounded like my dad trying to rap, not understanding when to put emphasis on certain words. The brief conversation is horribly awkward, but the good news is that at least he probably won’t be asking me to go on hunting trips because he thinks I ‘m a creepy son of a bitch. The agonizing exchange of words with the mysterious neighbor ends with him outreaching his fist to give me “dog”, while I mistake it for a typical handshake and make matters even worse. Who the hell knew 40 year old men like to give “dog”? The hunters part ways and I thankfully get thru the checkout line with out any problems other than a completely unnecessary gummy worm purchase.

Shit. I see the immensely intimidating girl scout clan awaiting me at my passage to freedom. I suddenly feel like a runaway slave, riding the underground railroad to Michigan. Only this time, slaves do not exist and racial equality is at an all-time high. And instead of angry confederate soldiers, I am dealing with 9 and 10 year old girl scouts. So even though it is 5 below outside and my car is parked on the far East side of the building, I meander away, slowly ambling my big feet towards the exit at the far West side of the store. I can’t believe that a half dozen school girls have forced me to walk an extra quarter-mile in the cold. Next time, I swear to god, I’ll but two boxes of Samoas and get out of there. As I walk the trail through the parking lot, I reach for my keys, but I can‘t find them. My heart sinks and I try to figure out where I could have dropped them. I head back inside, this time ready to face the consequences. I angrily stomp past the girl scouts, passing horrible gas in their vicinity as I stroll by. The next 10 minutes are spent scouring the aisles of the grocery store, completely unsure of where my demented path of grocery trails had led me. Everyone I saw must have thought I had a shoe fetish, because I kept catching myself looking up from the floor to confused people. After finishing my unsuccessful and awkward victory lap through the store, I cross the dangerous plains of girl scout country and walk in a shadow of shame to my vehicle. First I tripped on the curb. Then I ran into the grocery cart attendent after he went left, I went left and he went right and I went right. It looked like Bob Sanders trying to take down LaDanian Tomlinson in the open field. Finally, I reach my car and find my keys still in the ignition of my car. I fire it up, turn on some Stevie Wonder in celebration and begin my journey home. The mission wasn’t easy, but it was well worth the juicy steak and the sour cream drenched baked potato I’ll be savoring in an hour.

Oh fuck, I forgot the charcoal.