Take A Number, Grandma

I was at a local supermarket the other take to pick up some fare for an upcoming housewarming party I was hosting. I went to the deli counter to get some cheese for the dozens of burgers that would be grilled on this occasion.  The deli counter was mobbed, and mostly by senior citizens, who flock over to this supermarket from the many retirement villages in the area. If you’ve ever seen a crotchety old woman think that her number was skipped by the deli workers (who are shouting out numbers loud enough for anyone in Brazil to hear them), then you’ve witnessed the sudden rage that can envelop the old bat. Such a situation occurred on that day, which caused old ladies to yell at each other, and at the deli workers. Standing there, huffing and puffing, making sure their deli meats and cheeses are sliced just to perfection, yelling at complete strangers because they had to wait a couple extra minutes for their orders, these old farts make it difficult not to regret the increasing life span of the average American. Then again, maybe I’d be irritated too if I was possibly going to buy the farm at any minute and might not get to enjoy my perfectly-sliced meats and cheeses. Anyone who knows me is well aware that I have no love lost for old people, and if it were up to me, they’d all be stripped of their driver’s licenses and their ability to aggravate strangers at the supermarket, and stuffed into assisted living projects where people get paid well enough to deal with their shit, both literal and figurative.