8 Dec


True to his lyrics Mr.Ferry was a jealous bitch….


I’m not a bitter man and unlike Mr. Ferry I am not a jealous guy. I can live my life without the interference of others and without interfering with them. It’s just that sometimes when the pressure is on and we forget who we really are, cruel Mother Nature plays her tricks and instinct kicks in. Simply put, I am just a simple soul living a peaceful life with no thought given to anyone except myself and my family. Why then is it that time and again my mortal meanderings are so rudely interrupted? Be it in the car, at the supermarket, while waiting in line for a book of stamps. Random acts of thoughtless self-enrichment by complete strangers whilst fulfilling quotidian acts.


Did I mention my wife does Yoda? 


Yoda’s multi colored pole was popular with the ladies…

Anyway back to the original train of thought. COSTCO, that battlefield of life, that Serengeti of modern American living, where one has to struggle through the corpulent, the obese and the gargantuan, is a good example of what I am talking about. An ensemble of mountainous starving flesh, congregated by the watering holes of consumerism; hundreds of pounds of quivering mass, herded together around the freebee stations. Not content with a month’s worth of cheese in their shopping carts and enough pinto beans to feed a small South American republic they desire more, and are prepared to do whatever it takes to get it. Never was so much consumed by so few to the aghast of so many!

 (Sounds like a Winston Churchill speech!!)

It must be the essence of beans or the whiff of bacon which first startles the herd and sends them romping off to some distant corner of the store to consume whatever it is that needs to be consumed. It’s certainly not the mating instinct as the dolly birds who give away the tasty teasers, who are at least in their early sixties, are hardly in prime condition to help proliferate the species. Like a BBC nature program one can watch the flock fall and swoop as it homes in on latitudes more advantageous to life. Clearly it is the feeding frenzy and the herd mentality which are to blame, causing them to forget their civilized precepts, despite their better instincts, to do what it is they do.

After three hams, a field of potatos and several oxen; Janet still had room for ice cream.


Did I mention that this Yoda chap likes different positions? Sounds to me like he’s an accomplished lover as some of them appear to be quite complicated. In fact strenuous to the degree that they take years of practice to perfect. I am therefore forced to accept that my wife’s philanderings may endure for some time.

It’s the same COSTCO mentality that one sees on the I-10. For mile after mile warnings for lane closure or traffic diversion are clearly visible; red and white barriers that effectively constrict the roads, forcing the traffic closer together and so enabling the commute. Cops stationed at every intersection, flashing red and blue lights helping to guide us safely home. A fairly simple case of traffic control and yet there is always one of those COSTCO bastards that’s cocks it up for everybody else!

Blinded by their sense of self-worth, and possibly even by their urge to return to COSTCO in the off chance that they are giving away Hanukkah hams, they wait until the last second to pull into the only available lane. You’ve seen them; always at the very end of the line, their indicators flashing, the pleading puppy dogs looks in their eyes. “Please, please let me in. I have to get home to my loving fat bastard of a husband and my starving sub-Saharan children.”

Since his divorce Mr. Yamamoto had discovered that his weekly shopping had decreased significantly…

Well screw them and their wilder beast mentality, I will not be moved. No matter how far you edge your SUV into my line I will not yield. Us Brits are made of stronger stuff! Did we not endure forty years of Nazi bombing, Viking naval attacks, a plague of Poles and Sir Paul McCartney? I swear to you on the death bed of my great Aunty George, placid as I am, I can only be pushed so far.

So Yoda, whom my wife apparently adores, has his own private studio, where she sneaks off to twice a week. It’s not the physical thing that bothers me, it’s the temerity of the little green wrinkly bastard demanding twelve dollars per session! I mean she is pretty bare faced about the whole thing. Dresses up in her leggings, and one of her little slinky sporty outfits. Grabs her water and her towel and then tells me she is in for a really hot session! The bare faced effrontery of it all! She can count herself lucky that it’s only six of the deadly sins I enjoy and not the seventh.

I’m stood in the aisles of Cosco looking through rack upon rack of tinned food. It’s as though the U.S.S Carl Vinson has just unloaded its disaster relief cargo and the survivors are stocking up before the aftershocks hit the city. Stood there with the family I see starving sumo wrestlers pushing frail octogenarians out of the way in order to grab the last five gallons of olive oil. (Double pack of course, because we are talking economic purchases. Your COSTCO shopper is a savvy shopper!)

 I see one of the afflicted heading towards me, determination set on his chubby face. There is only me and my cart between him and sixty cans of Chef Boyardee. Do I yield no, do I bend no, do I hold my hands up and quake in fear?  Never!


Luckily the Pilsbury dough-boy was still able to find employment after puberty..


 Using the skills I have honed on my multi-various journeys on the I-10 I hold my ground; gripping the handle of my cart firmly as I watch him huff and puff the final inches. His cart hits mine, and thanks to Newton’s third law, rebounds just as quickly. The cart hurtles back, his packet of 5000 fish sticks flies out of the trolley and lands on the floor next to his selection of 450 chicken pot pies. I stand tall and look down at my floored aggressor, gather my family around me and move on to the next aisle. Do not mess with a motorway veteran; you will lose every time.

Cuckolded by a small Martian from a galaxy far-far-away is one thing, but for her to lie to me about his name is another. All the signs are there, it’s obvious what’s going on, I am not blind! She begs and pleads with me but I do not relent. Yoda or Yoga; I don’t care to know what his name is!


 Even though she had conquered the complexities of Yoga, putting on her socks was still a problem…


I quite like the way my wife looks after one of those sweaty sessions and so I say do your worst Yoda, Yoga or whatever your name is? She might be yours for two hours a week but she knows which side her bread is buttered on.

 I laugh in your diminutive direction.

 What do you think you are going to achieve? I reap the benefits, while you my friend must endure those long lonely waiting hours praying for Wednesday and Friday to come around. You may impress her with your downward dog but lashings of savoir faire and an English accent will win out every time. No match for my Albion wit you are!

The girl is mine Yoda….the girl is mine.

Having spent weeks perfecting the letter A, Mary was a little worried about the letter Q…. 


One Response to “ENOUGH IS ENOUGH….”

  1. angeldane708@yahoo.com December 10, 2010 at 9:05 am #

    I, too, loathe those last minute lane changers. But seriously, keeping a fat man from his canned ravioli? That’s just cruel. No wonder your wife feels the need to run off with Yoda twice a week.

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