WTH DELI

First thing I have to say is that if you're related to me, I am wicked, wicked sorry.  (That's like being exponentially super-sorry.)

The second thing I have to say is that if you've recently friended me (or been friended by me) on Facebook, I apologize -- You probably didn't get the warning nor read the disclaimer in small print.  Like Monty Python claims at the end of The Holy Grail, "Run away! RUN AWAY!!!"

The third thing I have to say is that if you actually hang around with me in the flesh, I am profusely apologetic for the frigging weird shit that happens to us.  No, seriously.  I am like the Flinstones' Bad Luck Schleprock.  If something screwed up is going to happen, it will happen while you're with me.  It's one of those Laws of Nature or something.  Ask anyone who hangs around me; they'll verify this as true.

Take tonight, for example.  I drag my friend Jess to the store.  She doesn't really have to go, but she's a dear friend who knows I'll probably get into some kind of trouble, get arrested, or need an ambulance if I go on my own.  I stop by, pick her up, and we head over to the Market Basket that she knows reasonably well, but I don't.  I'm getting better, but I'm still somewhat unfamiliar with the aisle set-up.  (Note to grocery store chains: Set up all your damn stores the same.  Please.  For the love of all things sane, PUT YOUR STORES IN ORDER.)

While I'm running around the store like a beheaded chicken trying to find stuff in a way that might make sense to someone with a severe head injury (tortilla chips on one aisle, salsa ... nowhere to be seen), Jess is at the deli waiting to order a few cold cuts (Yes, COLD CUTS, not lunch meat).  The couple in front of her put their order in, and someone right then and right there might as well cue the Twilight Zone theme song because life as we know it just ends.  Don't believe me?  Here's the transcript.

DELI GUY:  May I help you?

COUPLE:   Yeah, give me a pound of that polished ham.

DELI GUY:  The ... say what?

COUPLE:  Polished ham.  POLISHED HAM!  We want a pound of that polished ham.

(Yes, because gawd forbid they get the unpolished ham.  How dull!)

DELI GUY:  Can I get you anything else?

COUPLE:  We need a pound of LOL cheese.

DELI GUY:  Um... LOL?

COUPLE:  Yes!  LOL!  LOL cheese.  The LOL brand cheese.  You know.  LOL.

(What a relief.  They can have the LOL cheese.  I want the ROTFLMFAO cheese.)

That's not the end of our strange adventure.  When we get to the check-out, the young male cashier tells me to leave the case of bottled water under my cart, and he hands me a sticker.  When Jess sees the sticker, a giant orange dot about the size of a quarter, she recounts the story of the time her son wanted one of the orange stickers.  The Market Basket lady refused, insisting that the orange stickers were only for groceries.

"What a bitch!" I reply.

All of a sudden, our young cashier turns to us and offers us both stickers.  We smile but decline.  He offers again and adds, "I'll draw happy faces on them for you."

I have to admit, I find this suggestion hilarious, and he can tell from our faces that we are thinking about accepting his offer.  He doesn't realize it, but this is exactly the kind of shit my friends and I live for.  (I know, I ended a sentence with a preposition.  Sue me.)  We leave the store with our groceries and our senses of humor intact.

I drop Jess at her house then continue home with my groceries.  I drive around the neighborhood because the radio is playing Black Sabbath's "Fairies Wear Boots," and it's not every day that I get to hear this (nor every day that fairies do, in fact, wear boots).  After unloading my bags, I will admit that I have little desire to polish the ham I bought.  I think I'll let it go into the fridge all unpolished and ugly.  Nor do I have any great burning need to laugh at the cheese.

I'm sure it was funny to someone, but, right now I just feel like Schleprock.  Shit follows me wherever I go, and there's very little I can do except shrug my shoulders, point at whoever is with me, and yell, "It's all YOUR fault!  You're a freak magnet!"  If I'm still conscious after that, I'm going to run away wicked, wicked fast.