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Fear
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Reprisal
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Desolation
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Coming soon...
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| AISLE ONE | - | PEDAGOGY: the art, science, or profession of teaching. | | | | THE ITEM | - | The Juice Machine |
Fresh OJ!
I can’t really explain it. Every morning I stroll through the dark aisles, listening to the pitter-patter of size twelve’s echo off cans of Spam and rice pudding, and find myself birthed wet and lonely at the bottom of aisle number one. I’m a newborn Produce Clerk with bloodshot eyes and unsure steps. I refuse to look or take in anything more than is absolutely mandatory for fear of rousing the parasitic memories of past mornings.
It’s dark here and the unprovoked added-value case regurgitates its coldness making me shiver like a left-for-dead Detroit heroine junkie. The juice machine sitting in the corner has turned itself on and is already humming its nauseating tune for me. The doors are open and the aliens invade with their ray guns and shopping carts. Before I even realize the store is alive again, my elbows and legs are lined with sweet orange goo. Fucking citrus carcasses. I’ve got Day of the Dead festival children dancing all around me until I rinse off one of my elbows with little Sally’s forehead. Twice.
Hell, it’s only the first hour of twelve and I have one kill under my apron already.
And fuck you all for sabotaging what could so easily be a tranquil and restful profession if not for your unrelenting barrage of routinely stupid comments.
As I pour out the last of my sanity into endless 64 and 32 oz containers, hearing "wow, that smells so good" only puts you in the DBAB lottery (Death-By-A-Bludgeoning). Guess what asshole, I'VE ONLY HEARD THAT SLICK AS SHIT LINE FOURTY TIMES IN THE LAST FUCKING HOUR! And for you clever cats out there, saying things like "got any with vodka in there?" only brings you one step closer to getting freshly squeezed piss.
Who are these cunt-mothers who let their bastard offspring stand next to me while I work? Moms, do I look like a purple fucking dinosaur? While your average 3-foot-fuckstain will be encouraged to go bang on the lobster tank at the opposite end of the store, persistent children will be privy to a blast of concentrated citric acid to the eyes. Mothers who can't watch their kids will find flesh-sirens running back to their sides.
The only perk I have discovered in squeezing juice is being able to fart. I can really lay into some. Hearing "wow, that smells so good!" is quite pleasurable after sounding off the burrito I downed that morning with a warm beer. It's even better when they catch a whiff right in the middle of their sentence, "wow, that smells so go... er, good." One time I had so much fun I almost shit my pants at work. We all know it's waaaaaay better to shit your pants at home.
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