Porcelain White

So I went to pick up a few groceries at the Walmart near my humble location of occupation, and I’m lucky I made it out alive. Walking through the parking lot, a woman stopped her car in front of me and said, “you better get a basket; they don’t have any in the store.”

I didn’t really believe her since lack of shopping baskets wasn’t such a serious crisis that a complete stranger would be compelled to warn complete strangers in the parking lot…but gosh-darn it, she was right. I could find nary a stray basket anywhere in the store. The only baskets available were the scooters for the morbidly obese and diabetics suffering from multiple amputations. I walked back out the store and found a basket newly abandoned outside the door. I make another attempt at consumerism.

It is a chilly god, a god of shades…fair chronicler of every foul declension.

My shopping list is brief…navel oranges, tortellini, reese’s peanut butter cups, and a quart of milk. And some t-shirts. And tampons. And something else I mindlessly put in my basket from the checkout racks. The cashier swipes the bar codes of my groceries making the card reader beep fart out items and numbers in electric monochrome and then she stops at my quart of milk:

“Do you know you can get a half-gallon of milk for less?”

I didn’t know, and I didn’t care because I don’t use a quart of milk in two weeks, much less a half-gallon. I wait for her to swipe the milk, but she’s not having it.
“Go get the half-gallon on sale; I’ll wait.”

The consumerist behind me in the checkout line agrees heartily: “Yeah, you better get the half-gallon.”

And here is where I fail so hard because, really, I couldn’t care less if I could get an extra quart of milk for pennies less since it will all go to waste, and it will go to waste because I only feel like eating Apple Jacks and Instant Jello Pudding before the milk spoils.

…sweeping up the jokers that he left behind
you find he did not leave you very much not even laughter

But I go back across the store, to the milk section, and get the half-gallon, and return to the cashier. She looks at the milk and shakes her head: “You got the wrong kind, this brand costs almost $5; get the ”

The cashier scans the milk of the Consumer of Inexpensive Dairy for my cart while I go back and get the milk that’s so cheap, cheaper than gasoline, cheaper than…me!

What with this whore costing less than half a gallon of gasoline…

I return with the milk, bag it, put it in my cart, and scoot out the Walmart before The Second Coming of Jesus hits because when there are no more shopping carts and cheap milk then you know it’s the end times.

And while he talks his dreams to sleep
you notice there's a highway
that is curling up like smoke above his shoulder
and suddenly you feel a little older

When I get home and unpack my groceries I discover that I have two half-gallons of milk which means that I have a full gallon of cheap milk, which means I’m a thief…a thief of cheap milk! Cheap milk that belonged to another customer, no less? I can imagine the mayhem already when Walmart Consumerist comes home with her groceries exclaiming to her husband, “Walmart had milk on sale today! It was cheaper than gasoline!!” Then she unpacks the ton of groceries only to discover…she had no milk!

..she nearly suffocated me under her ponderously large bubble butt.

I bet Consumer of Cheap Hormone-Induced Dairy spent a minute or two driving around the parking lot looking for the Bubble-Butt Whore Who Costs Less Than a Half-Gallon of Gasoline But Now Worth More Than A Whole Gallon of Milk!

I plan to drink as much of these two-half-gallons (formerly one solitary quart) of milk as I can until milky, porcelain whiteness seeps through my pores, and I’m no longer little and brown and bubbly, but smooth alabaster creaminess that will finally garner some semblance of something that’s pure, lovely, fragile, and beautiful.

Please understand, I never had a secret chart
to get me to the heart of this
or any other matter
When he talks like this
you don't know what he's after

Oh, fuck, who am I kidding? I’ll just morph into white, bubble-butt, whorish Vashaniqua (or whatever racist slur white trash kids are thinking up these days). The color changes but the hate remains the same. Bubble-butt whore it is, then.

And it comes to you, he never was a stranger
And you say ok the bridge or someplace later.