I love shopping for shoes, clothes, make-up, I'll even go shopping for toys for the girls and sports gear but I detest going grocery shopping.
There is just something about it that just PISSES ME OFF and thats even before I get to the shops. It causes rage and irritation and it digs down deep and has bred a new social disease.
Trolley Rage!
I just know a visit to the local Pick 'n Pay will rile me up into a fury that is not pretty and could scare a fucking WWF professional. I know how it will end up, and what kind of mood its going to elicit but yet, I have to go.
I will point out the reasons why I hate it. But first, I need to start at the beginning and explain the tools of the trade - The aparatus needed to complete the grating task.
According to The Daft Scots Lass, there are three types of supermarket trolley equipment:
- The old-fashioned wire kind. Oh yeah, these are the best for smash-up derbys at yer local Spar and they do the most damage during Trolley Rage, but thats later in the post. These are my personal favourite as they have an aggressive appearance and they make brilliant crashing noises when you offensively bash them against something or someone.
- The plastic, more modern, kind. These are amiable and good-natured pieces of shopping paraphernalia. Kind and gentle mothers seem to prefer them as they are more eco- and child-friendly.
- The Car Trolleys or Car Carts. You know, the ones that have a car attached to the trolley to keep the kiddies entertained. These generally come with four wheels and a steering wheel and are few and far between and if you can't find one, it causes a 3 year old melt-down before you even get into the shop.
Wrong!
Those fucking trolleys are normally jammed so tight together, like two shagging dogs. You literally have to perform a Tug o' War demonstration to pry them apart. Their sticky handles don't help either. I just pray that its not someone's booger or earwax that's causing the slimey texture. Thisis Trolley Rage Phase #1.
Now don't get me wrong, I don't go grocery shopping with Trolley Rage in mind, it just happens...
Now that I've tugged at the trolleys, almost dislocating my shoulder joint, I proceed into the shop and down Isle #1. This is where I usually find out that my trolley has one sweaky, wonky wheel and pulls to the left.
I have now reached my 2nd Phase of Trolley Rage! My clutch on the trolleys handle has tightened, my face has changed to a deep shade of pink and I'm grinding my teeth.
I proceed.
I have now got a handful of items successfully nestled in my trolley and I'm pressing on and increasing my speed. I am not currently aware of this, as my trolley is not fitted with a Speedometre or a Global Positioning device.
I am at the point where I spin around quicker than a flash, looking for a shop assistant to blast, someone to verbally abuse. It usually ends up in the shop assistant shrugging and me giving him the evil eye, then barking profanities and pointing my fingers about 3 inches from the poor bloke's eyeball.
Frustration...
The Trolley Rage now rapidly shifts into Phase #4. It is increasing in speed and strength and so am I. When I am unable to reach items on the two top shelves because I'm only five foot nothing. When I stand on my tip toes on the first shelf only to slide off and eventually have to jump up and stretch to reach it. Other rude shoppers snigger at me battling instead of trying to help me. Fuckers! Not even the shop assistant whats to help me as he's had enough of my abuse and is taking his sweet revenge. I kick the trolley.
I'm trudge through.
A dirty Bitch fondelling the bread rolls and puting them back engages Phase #5!
My rage is building, growing. I start flinging items in the trolley, the pull to the left is becoming noticeably worse. I've started bashing displays at the end of each isle causing a few spokes of the wire trolley to fuse into one another. I start snapping at the children and I open bars of chocolate to keep them quiet but the steam is now starting to emerge from my ears and my eyes now have the appearance of a constipated Asian. I call them Anger Slits.
When I get to the tellers, The Teller and The Packer, who have a combined IQ of 50, insist in talking to each other at top volume and not acknowledging my presence at all. I clatter the trolley to try and get their attention. Another dent - no luck in getting their attention though. Fuckers! Phase #6 explodes. I'm now feeling the warefare approach and I have battlefield images flashing through my mind. I want blood!
Get out of the shop, Retreat! Abort Mission! Abort!
We are out of the store!
Cue celebratory gun fire!!!
Its all over, until next month's grocery expedition.
Trolley Rage guilt doesn't last long especially when I discovery that Pick 'n Pay have now opened a new lucrative division: Trolley Panel Beaters.
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