Celebs in checkoutlines and the price of a plastic bag in Dundalk

For the first time in what seems like an eternity, I am forced to buy my food at a bloody supermarket.
In the gloom of the sunset I walked to the closest one 10 minute walk away. Crispy air and a blatter that was getting full and something needed to get out, I rushed to this beast of a corporate store.
It took me good 20 minutes to pick up foodstuffs for the amount of 10.86. I’m 10 cents short.
While putting my bellyfill on he counter, I see the same ugly face as I do every week going into a store with glossy magazines. A glam model who laps ou all her secrets for all the world to see. It’s as if reality stars and glam models who try to live their lives as a fairy tale have more to tell than other people, and seem to suffer more than everybody else.
Two weeks ago, this ultra blonde British brunette was raped. So? Women and girls get raped every day. Like in the “Democratic” Republic of Congo, girls are getting raped by numbskulls in uniform who seem not to be able to get it up unless there’s a forced gang bang coming up.
“I fucking see this blondie brunette every time I go to a check out counter” I can inform the woman behind the counter. “I saw her in front of the same kind of gloss 2 years ago and three years ago and four years ago! What the hell have she done with her life? Getting in front some mag and reveal all about her “secret” engagement? It’s not much of a secret anymore when you squeal all to the most braindead press! Last week it was rape, as if she’s the only one who’s ever been raped, and her story is more teradropping than anyone elses! Bloody morons!” Later on my way home I thought of the one I love and her hardships. Abbout my hardships. But mostly hers. And thought “Now there’s a story you can weep about and make money of it!” Or I could think “A 100 years ago you were a celebrity and feared and revered if you had a talent. It didn’t matter how ugly you were since they did not have reality tv shows back then.
I thought of the best Irish writer and thought of how ghastly they really looked. The lot of them. Now that’s hardships lady!

Back at the store! For twenty minutes I tried to figure out how to get the best use of my 10 euros 76 cents while my goods were scanned.
-“10. euros 86 please” the wee Eastern Europpean overweight girl asked of me”.
-Shit! I’m ten cents short” I admitted.
She thought for a split second while beeing distracted by my rant about talented fake boob queens (I love boobs1 Don’t get me wrong! But they must be accessible and mine to shape exclusivelly.) and their lack of talent, she let it go. By, I felt so lucky! A whole dime short and the friendliness.
I noticed there was no bag with this shipment. Normally check out girls ask in a monotonous sour voice “wanna a bag with that?” I understand them! It’s not the most inspiring work having “wanna a bag with that” for a living.
I asked her politely if I could get a bag for my gorceries and two pints.
-“22 cents please” she replies. I thought she was joking. I was just 10 cents short for my groceries, and now she asks me 22 cents for a bag with the stores logo on it!
-“I’m sorry, but if you haven’t noticed, I’m unfortuntally 22 cents short.
-“I cannot give you a bag. It’s company policy, and I can get fired if I gave you one.”
I was either dreaming or hallucinatiing.
-“Are you kidding me? Getting sacked for giving a company slogan to someone for free? Is this Russia or North Korea or some bible wanker land in the US?”
-“Im sorry, but it’s the law in Ireland.”
Right! And I’m a leprachon from Outer Mongolia!
-“Can you then please explain to me how I’m gonna carry my things the mile I walk home?”
The women at the other counters started to take notice. We ad a little dilemma here! We can’t have a sour customer and we can’t steal from the Dunnes family. Not even a 22 cents. They might go bankrupt if 22 cents dissappeared here and there for giving customers a free bag as a promotion by the philantropic Dunnes family.
They go on a hunt for nickles and pennies (so to speak), and managed to scrape up enough so I would have to walk home looking like a complete idiot.
I don’t need anybody’s help in doing that!

On my way home, I went back to my thoughts of how one don’t have to have a talent for anything. Britain have her own Paris Hilton! Her name is Jordan something!
Back in Norway we have our own blonde drama queen with no talent! Her big accomplishement in life is being the step daughter of our queens brother! A kind of fame young kids can really emulate and aspire to! That’s why we have reality shows. And you don’t even have to have anything wise to say but “I have to ave that Gucci bag by the end of the week” kind of diaries and quasi celeb blogs with a blonde face on it.
It’s become a giant diaoreha the whole lot.

I wonder if Ireland have her own Paris Hilton! Someone who’s dead serious about themselves, selling their entire story to a cynical “press” to sell for an even steeper price to a gullible audience and actually think that someone more than two working brain cells is actually taking them seriously.
How about feeding a whole village in Rwanda for the money that would buy the next Gucci? Or the next session with your headshrink or fashion designer?
Or saving my teeth that is falling out one by one?

Fuck! I gotta share this with someone!
I’m tired of just being the sharp tongued asshole who looks like some sort of a road gangster from Phoenix or Albaquerque.
I share the story with my new friends and house mates Tom and Alan! At least that’s what I think their names are.
Who are you again?
They’re sitting up in Alans room getting ready for some splifs.
I tell them the story. They look at each other and give me a smirk.

Bohemianwriter, September 2009


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