I spent the morning roasting in The Devil's Playground.
Doesn't The Devil know that it costs more to cool those open receptacles of frozen food when the store temperature is near 80 degrees?
I actually felt faint while waiting ten minutes in line to check out. There was a little old lady on a beeper cart in front of a regular lady with a regular cart. I think they were working in tandem. But it was still two orders to put on the conveyor, and two orders to pay for.
While waiting, leaning on my cart, trying to decide whether to put my head between my knees to keep from losing consciousness, I witnessed another near beeper-cart collision in the 20-items or less aisle next to my line. A slim oldster started backing for no apparent reason, making the no-spring-chicken gal behind her scurry out of harm's way. She had no cart to absorb the shock. A tragedy was narrowly averted. Those beeper people think they own the aisles.
Meanwhile, I was losing fluids at an alarming rate, the collection of sweat on my scalp forming a regular watershed of tributaries to flow into major waterways and eventually pool at my feet. I tried fanning myself with a National Enquirer and a Globe, but they soon soaked up my hand perspiration and became as effective for evaporating sweat as a bundle of wet noodles.
I patted myself on my sweat-soaked back for not buying eggs. They would have hatched before they were scanned. Thank the Gummi Mary, it was not a week to buy biscuits, because they would have exploded from the can with nary a spoon jammed into their cardboard crevices.
With my transaction finally complete, I rejoined The Pony in the game room, where he was recklessly driving a video car. I resisted the urge to collapse in a vibrating chair for fear that I would never arise, and my flesh would grow into the fake leather fabric.
I am considering a sideline while I whip my handbasket factory into shape. I will rent space in a section of The Devil's game room, and have nurses on standby with IV fluids.
I think I could make a killing.