On Vegetables and Birth Control Options

I'm standing in line at Wal-mart, the designated meeting place for all the walking cesspools of human folly. I've got my loaded cart in front of me, a surly look pasted carefully on my face, and my shoulders are hunched inward. With my body language, I'm projecting to the world that I don't want to talk to you, so don't fucking look at me and try to engage me in conversation.

This protective posturing never works at Wal-Mart though, and of course some diseased-looking, border-line retarded person gets in line behind me, clutching a box of magnum condoms and a single avocado. I sigh, knowing full well how this will all play out. Within thirty seconds, he proves me right. He directs his comments to the line in general; no one has yet been singled out for some one-on-one time with this relative of cro-magnum man. People like him always test the waters first by making the generic comment about the line or the weather. They're subsequent behavior is based on the response they get from the crowd.

"Dude, this is bullshit. They need more checkers," the skank huffs, as though he's got an important meeting with his lawyers to discuss the buyout of a rival corporation. The rest of us in line carefully continue looking forward. Eye contact would be a disaster at this point. Look this man in the eyes and it would take the SWAT team to extract your ass from his exhortations that NASCAR and pussy are the only things that give his life meaning anymore.

Now, the game gets interesting. He's made his general comment about the length of the line and he's gotten no takers - no sympathetic head nods, no awkward chuckles, no outright agreement. He's got to get aggressive now if he wants to share his story about the enormous shit he just took in Wal-Mart's bathroom, so he scans the line of bent heads, searching for the poor asshole who's too polite to blatantly ignore him.

Invariably, that asshole is me. Something about me just screams, "Hey there crazy person, want to share your story about how you blew snot in some cop's face? Want to tell me how your girlfriend's been licking some other dude's balls? I'm all fucking ears!"

"Hey, you ever seen that movie where the guy gets mad and shoots up a burger place?" he says, his breath coating the back of my exposed neck. A plantation of bacteria, complete with lesser bacteria in the role of slaves, has now sprung up there, along my hair line, I can feel it. I fight the urge to rub my neck vigorously. I also fight the insane urge to turn around. If I turn around now, then I'll walk right into his trap and he'll hold me prisoner with his southern gothic tales of sex, drugs, and women who aren't clean. I'll be giving up myself for the good of the others in the line, which is what Jesus would do, but I think that whole "savior mentality" is bullshit.

"Hey, you know what movie I'm talking about?" he persists, sensing I think that any minute now I'll cave and look at him. He's right. I look at him. I just can't help it. I'm too polite for my own good. I really am like Jesus - not becuase I suffer from delusions that my pot-bellied father is really a God, I just can't help being nice to people.

"I've never seen that movie," I mumble, taking in his appearance with some measure of awe. He looks like a pedophile, the kind that get caught after one lewd incident becuase they're too fucking stupid to get away with actual crimes. He's wearing a fishnet shirt, a dirty pair of carpenter jeans (Old Navy circa 1998) and generic-brand high top sneakers. His hair is long, frizzy, and somehow greasy and dry at the same time. His teeth are crooked and yellow, his skin is sallow and scabby, and he's got some bleading pustule thing nestled up against his left nostril.

"Well, I'm feeling like the guy in that movie right about now. Fuckin' frustrated, man. This line better get movin," he says, shifting his purchases so that the box of magnum condoms is fully visible. At this point, I'm not really sure how the world hasn't self-imploded. String theory, gravity - how has it all held up under this kind of assault on reason? This man, with his bleeding face pustule, still thinks he's a good catch. Worse, he thinks that his pathetic box of magnum condoms is going to lure me into his sweaty embrace. He's reduced our limited exchange, one I wasn't even willing to take part in, to a primitive animal mating ritual where he plays the role of strutting male peacock and I am the female peacock, helpless against his wiles. That box of magnum condoms is his fucking plummage.

"Let's get a moooove on," he says loudly, sighing and stretching his arms up in the air. I catch a glimpse of his belly and notice he's got a rather shaky tattoo of Miss Piggy knee deep in Kermit's crotch. "I got some business to attend to," he says, attempting a British accent and indicating the condoms with his eyes. The avocado, so far, has gone unexplained. I'm fucked now, so I might as well get the whole picture. So, I ask about it, expecting that hard little green vegetable to play some role in his trailor park sex-capades this evening.

"My girl's making Guac. Bitch didn't get enough at the store yesterday," he says, chuckling conspiratorially. You know these female skanks, they just can't add avocados correctly. Tee-hee!

He's also now switched from British to ebonics. Apparantly, when referencing sexual "business," one must assume the air of a randy Englishman, a la Hugh Grant. When referencing one's wife's inabilty to buy all the ingredients for guacamole, one must assume the role of "hardened gangsta thug who don't take no shit from his bitch."

It's my turn to check out now, so I turn around and start stacking my stuff neatly on the conveyer belt. I can feel him back there, watching me, analyzing my purchases, maybe even judging me. I covertly slip my People magazine under a stack of frozen pizzas. For some fucked up reason, I don't want this gene-pool tainter to know I like silly magazines. He doesn't say anything else, and I'm able to check out, get outside, and get home without further harassment form him or any of the other nasty bastards that lurk in the store and the parking lot. But the damage has been done. From now on, every time I see guacamole, I'm going to think of that hairy, fishnet-wearing sexual predator and his magnum condoms.