Where do I start?

Well Victurd, most, move to the ULHC.

Huh?

Yeah, the Upper Left Hand Corner.

Oh. Yeah. Thanks.  That ain't really what I meant, but, thanks, and I get that.  I mean, (don't neva' believe someone who starts a sentence with 'I mean."  I mean, what if they don't?  Particularly if their name is Simon.  Huh? Yeah, you know, like, "I mean", Simon says.

For instance.  The grandkids kidnapped me the other day.  Forced me in the car.  (Oft times when i'm driving with them, i'll say, "I'm gonna take a quick nap", cruise control on fitty... "I mean, I need one."  I usedta get a rise out of 'em with that, not so much anymore.  Same with, quietly driving down Interstate, then, scream/point HAY!!!!!!! they'd look and there'd be a big old round bale of hay. Smirk. Don't work no mo' either.

So, they flung me in the driver's seat of my 2002 Buick Century.  Pointed East.  Grandpa  be good grandpa, he knows that means,  "Dari-B", Excelsior Springs, MO.  THE home of soft serve ice cream.  Years ago, in fact, folks across the land thought the soft serve had healing properties, so Horace hollered out, "Go West Young man, to Excelsior.  Scoop you up some soft serve.  I mean, Simon Says."

They did.

We did too.  Now to the point of this damn blog.  Please, no cussing Victurd.  It's the internet, I'll do any darn thing I want.

The point is I WANTED A SHAKE. I was Pavlov'ing for a SHAKE.  It's all I had in/on my brain.  The three snotnoses, er, loving grands, ordered, got.  My turn. I'D LIKE A MEDIUM CHOCOLATE SHAKE, PLEASE.  The order taker stared at one'a my grands, and as if to pretend to be Bart Simpson, said, "You look like a rich kid, use your grandpa's charge card."  So, we did. "That'll be (way too much but I gotta buy everyone something)" so I charged, we waited.

"Here's yours... and yours.. and yours... and, Grandpa, here's your shake and your straw."  Like a kid in a candy store, I envisioned plopping back in the driver's seat......... taking the damn (sorry, darn) paper off the straw, and sucking all that loose chocolate yum up into my big fat mouth. YUM.

Except.  Now to the point of this damn blog. The shake was SO THICK, No matta' how hard I tried, sucked, it wasn't moving.

IT'S LIKE WHEN I SIT DOWN AT THIS DAMN COMPUTER, there, I said it Simon, and I MEANT IT...  I mean, I've got ALL THIS GOBBLEDY GOOP IN MY BRAIN I WANNA SHARE (the really nice, nifty, stryo medium cup fulla heavenly chocolate shake), but I sit down at my computer (that's ME, in the 2002 Buick Century, the keyboard is my straw) and NO MATTA' how hard I think, suck, wish, hope (wishin' and hopin') it ain't happenin.

I wanna write about WalMart. I tweren't in a hurry, so, after driving up and down the aisles, on the 27th passing, I finally got a handicap spot. There was a song on I really liked, so, I didn't get out. As I sat, I saw chain-smokers, boozers, yuppies, bikers, hitchhikers, girls next door, cowboys, truckers, broken hearted fools and suckers, hustlers, fighters, early-birds and all nighters.  I love this bar, er, I mean WalMart.

A trip to WalMart beats all.  Sears supposedly has everything, but hell (sorry, kinda) are there any left?  Baskin-Robbins brags about 31 different kinds, in two minutes, twenty-eight seconds in the WalMart parking lot, you can see 32 kinds of people.  Some, we piggies think "Oh baby, take a little off wouldya?" and others, "Good gosh Gertie, put a little more on wouldya?" Men are perfect though and we don't judge.

You can see people argue... parent...   not-parent...  skimp.. punch numbers into their calculator... stand in the way..  stand in the way, with their cart taking up halfa the aisle, and their butt the other half.. oblivious to us all, even the way too many GD (gosh darn) Wally order pickers... we read on Facebook, listen to people bitch, moan, "I don't work for WalMart, gimme a checker".. and in reality, 93% of all do the self check.  Shrinks love the place.

In fact.  I can just see.. . Two.  A couple.  A couple of retired shrinks, sitting at home.  "Whatta you wanna do?"  "I dunno...whatta you wanna do.?"  And, then, it clicks. WAL-MART! So, they go watch.  For awhile in their close to the front spot, then, if they get hungry, they go in, grab a cart.. .mebbe a grape or four, some rasberries.. .a banana or two...look, listen, and record all the hilarity into their brain.  Beats the hell outta an evening at the B&B Theaters,$67 for two tickets, a large popcorn and a shared Sprite.

When i was a tad younger... I usedta get pissed when I went into Wally. EVERYONE was young.  So, I'd walk my cart around the store until I found someone I was pretty certain was older than me.  If I wasn't sure, "Excuse me ma'am, what year'd you graduate?"  Well, ya gotta find out.  Now, with the hitch-in-the-getalong to my legs, I use a geezer cart.  Ain't near as fun looking for someone older, besides, one too many times I've been trapped in the backa the store with a full cart of groceries and a dead battery.  I will, however, ask virtually every other geezer riding a cart "Wanna race?"  Especially the ones a tad fatter'n me.

So................. my oldest granddaughter noticed my difficulties trying to get shake from the cup into my mouth.... "Did you get a spoon grandpa?" I literally HATE when children are smarter'n me. I get the feel of "It's over Victor, it's over."

So............. the answer to the blog (thick chocolate shake, no go up the straw) was to just set my butt down and start typing.  The blog sucks, I know, but hey, there ain't no pop-up here asking for your credit card info and the three digit thingy (but if you wanna leave 'em, that's cool).

As to the chocolate shake. "No sweetheart, i didn't grab a spoon, but... I've had this plastic knife and fork up here on the dash, saving it specifically for a moment like this."

The Burma Shave to all this crap........  Pride, and a too thick chocolate shake, is hard to swallow... but it will go down... even with a fork, and a very simple minded blog writer.

Here's a toast to better use of your time.  Try WalMart sometime.  Mikey likes it. Shrinks too.

Love, Victurd