Meat Markets, Matriarchs and Dragon Dicks: What I shoulda Said

M and I did our bimonthly run to the meat market today.  It was packed.  We should’ve expected it.  The market’s smack dab in the middle of Welfare Row and today’s the second of the month.  It didn’t even cross my mind, though, till we were on the way home.

So there’s the usual big-mouthed matriarchs pacing the too-small aisles as if they own the store while barking orders at their quietly-annoyed husbands and rambunctious children.  I’m a people-watcher so their presence fascinates me.  I can’t help but stare.  And eavesdrop.  And comment.

I’m not intentionally rude.  I just love watching this group of human beings.  They simultaneously exalt and degrade each other and themselves nonstop.  And I wonder how different I am.  Not much, I gather.  I just choose a different direction to go with it.

We’re the in-and-out type as much as we can be.  We both hate shopping.  We can’t deal with Joe Consumer, these days.  So we were through the line and checking out before the matriarchs before us had fully decided what they wanted to order.  Add to that the fact that we got grabbed by Mr. I-Recognize-You-and-You-Like-it-Thin-and-Fast, and we were in and out in ten minutes flat.  We were being rung out while the matriarchs were still wandering back and forth asking for things they forgot.  Trying to spend every last penny of Joe Taxpayer’s money.

Ms. I’m-the-Real-Matriarch-Here, complete with ample bottom and simple corn rows, turns to me as I wait for my last parcel to be gathered and rung and says, “You throw it down.  You want outta here, huh?” and at first I didn’t understand what she said.  Sometimes, because of the trouble I have with background noise and the voices in my head over-riding what I’m supposed to be listening to, I have to think about what people say to really hear their words.

But what I shoulda said was something to the effect of:

“What was your first clue? The fact that I have a list? Or maybe that my man and I spent two minutes at the door discussing our strategy and split up? Or how bout the fact that I only had to change my order once? Or was it that I didn’t question His orders; I just did what He yelled from the other side of the store.

“And you notice how quickly we were helped, right? There was no groaning or discussing who would take us.  Matter of fact, we had three people, simultaneously, try to snatch us away from each other.  And we chose the guy who works the fastest.

“We knew what we wanted.  We ordered it and moved to the next section without a moment’s hesitation.  We kept our eye on the guy helping us.  And we kept it moving.  You’d do well to do the same.”

I mean, really.  Does everything we do, in the ghetto, have to be drama-ridden? Are we that bored? And if so, then someone seriously needs to drop a bomb on us.  Cause we’re useless if we can’t figure out a better way to entertain ourselves.

Also and totally off topic… please don’t ever send me a realistically colored dildo or vibe.  And if it’s got pubes, you can seriously keep it.  Burn it? Do something with it besides send it to me.

Skin-tone, realistic-looking sex toys creep me right the fuck out.  They look and feel, to me, like a severed penis.  Just… ew.  No.  Thank.  You.  I’ll fuck a dragon dick before I’ll ever even consider a sex toy that looks like a severed penis.  For serious.  I’ll not mention that I’m strangely attracted to those dragon dicks of which I speak.

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