Monday, January 1, 2018

Happy New Year

At the peak of the Festive Season your correspondent had walked for miles through the parking area and he was inside the Grocery Store. The C-word was being tossed around like confetti by those who block the aisles with loaded shopping carts so they can engage in endless discussion around the complexities presented by long distance relatives who may or may not be visiting for the Day of Consumption. Nor can a polite shopper, who probably should have had a shave, just stand there clearing his throat, because it just doesn't work with those on the verge of a nervous breakdown at the prospect of the husband's aunt "dropping in again." Which means alternative routes around the logjam have to be mapped. And that was how I found myself in the Soft Drink aisle, remembering the two cans of Coca-Cola left over from one of the Artist's stranger projects that had something to do with pouring it over ancient wooden planks. Everyone knows that soft drinks of any kind are products of Satan and should only ever be purchased in pursuit of pure forms derived through creative exploration, and anything like a can or two of Coca-cola left over from such a worthy adventure are pretty much doomed to a life of purposelessness lost to the back of a shelf, unless a noble soul bravely puts them out of their misery by drinking them. It's a good cause, a charitable act, and doesn't taste too bad if you enjoy the sensation of sweet fizzy watery syrup bubbling through the dentures before quarreling with an amalgam of stomach acids that have certainly seen better days and take pleasure in letting you know it.

But there's a reason festive throngs are unable to forbid their more sickly offspring from running up and down Satan's Soft Drink Aisle shrieking at the top of their lungs and generally sniffling in a manner that can only be described as public health hazard. I had to pause to hold my breath beside the mountain of Coca-Cola. You could buy three 12 packs for ten dollars if you had the card. I had the card, but ten dollars is easily a sky scraper and several railway stations in N Scale and who in their right mind wants 36 cans of Coca-Cola. The other thing about genuine Coca-Cola is that it comes in a red can, and through the course of the year of 2017 some of us have developed a peculiar aphasic reaction to the color red that leaves us with the ability to hear but robs us of the ability to believe what's being said. Briefly I made the mistake of wondering why I hadn't used the sanitary tissues provided to wipe the handles of my obviously infectious shopping cart, and as I slowly convinced myself that I had every conceivable symptom of terminal flue, a young male labeled Duane wearing the award winning black shirt of an Associate of the Day asked me whether I needed help. I said, "No." To which he replied "Have a Happy Holidays!" "And a Very Merry New Year to you!" I fired back. A beam of light came down from the heavens and as glory shone all around, I almost damaged my elegant wrists lifting a 12 pack of Pepsi-Cola into my cart. It cost three dollars and fifty cents with card. And for those interested, Pepsi-Cola comes in a comprehensible blue can with a maybe three electoral votes sized bit of red on it.

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