Buying Cat Food

My cats are not the type that I can let go hungry for even a little bit. The cat food bowl is not allowed to even go down halfway before the orange cat begins stalking me throughout the apartment howling as if he's at death's door. I do my best to make sure that I get a new bag of IAMS before the other bag even runs out, but this wasn't the case yesterday; the bag had already run out. So I had to go to the Rite-Aid.
I love the CVS, but I hate the Rite-Aid. CVS has clean aisles, usually fully stocked, the cashiers are all younger than ninety-years-old. The Rite-Aid smells like spoiled milk, usually has Christian or country-western music playing (no joke - Dolly Parton is cute to look at, but come on!), and perpetually has wind chimes on sale near the front that people are bumping into. But the Rite-Aid is much closer and the Survivor finale was on last night, so I had to go there.
In addition to buying the IAMS and some saltine crackers so that I could make peanut butter and jelly cracker sandwiches, I bought two cans of Fancy Feast.















The cats go ape-shit when I feed them a can. I think they put cocaine in that cat food. Sometimes I fear for my life.
I arrived at the counter to pay the cashier. There was two customers ahead of me and she commented on everything they were buying. "Oh, that's a good deal. Mmm, I'ma have to get me somma that." What the fuck was she talking about that she wanted to get Old Spice after-shave?

Meanwhile, I looked and saw a People Magazine in a rack. There was a photograph of Bret Michaels in his hospital bed with his bandana wrapped around his head. This is pure comedy to me.

















If I am ever in the hospital again (Heaven forbid! There are no smoking rooms there!), I want to put cowboy hats, party hats, tiaras, and baskets of fruit on my head and have people take pictures of me.








































When I finally was able to place my three items on the counter, the woman just said, "Huh." I looked at her and could see that her gums were tan and black - black! - as if she'd been a snuff chewer for the past 70 years. Her voice sounded like she chewed some glass and a few shards were caught in her throat.
"Huh." Dripping with judgment, that "huh."
So I told her that it was my dinner. I explained, maintaining eye contact, that the Chicken Feast Classic was very much like pate and tasted wonderful on a cracker.
She looked repulsed by me, shook her head, and said, "That ain't even right."
But that was all she said to me.