Thursday, January 26, 2006

Things That Need To End: Grocery Carts for Kids

A few evenings ago, I headed over to my local supermarket D'Agostinos (or, as I prefer "Faggy Chinos") to pick up some staple foods (read: water, pomegranate juice, a jar of Ranch dressing, big wooden spoon, etc.)

D'Agostinos is, in my estimation, one of the worst supermarkets in New York. I've gotten food poisoning from them TWICE (my roomate just now getting over some bad sushi she had recently), they only put things on sale that are about to spoil (just yesterday I got some Dannon with Brendan Frasier's face on the lid promoting "Blast From The Past" for only eight cents), and they always, ALWAYS, overcharge you when you get to the register. Thanks to my kitchen (the size of Kelly Ripa's shoebox), I don't often cook, although I imagine their meat department slogan to be "E. Coli is A. Okay!" Not to mention, their employees boast nothing short of a second grade education, but apparently have Ph.D's in "Bad Attitude." (Oh, I went there!)

And yet, with all of these problems, I continue to shop there on occasion, as it is practically on my corner, and I am severely, severely disabled with mild pangs of carpel tunnel. Also, I am a member of their "Greenpoints Club", where I earn a point for every dollar, meaning that in about 34 years I'm gonna end up with a sweet AM/FM cassette player from Koss.

But one thing that happened a few days ago made me think twice about returning to Faggy Chinos. And that thing begins and ends with CHILD SHOPPING CARTS.

Yes. Tiny, tiny, miniature shopping carts meant to be pushed around by toddlers.

So there I am, myself a literal gie-gie, turning into the dairy aisle with a tub of hummus cradled in my arms like a premie, when I nearly KILL a little blonde child roughly 2 feet tall, pushing around one of these miniature carts. The carts themselves are so small that they have room for one box of cereal, 2 Push Pops, and a single grain of rice. That's it, they're that small.

And there I am to buy the supermarket staples that any Dominatrix College Mascot needs: Cheez Doodles, Zima, cabbage, alien food, Tresumme, and a cock ring.

Why the supermarket would even offer these tiny trolleys for tykes is beyond me. What's the point? So your daughter can feel like an adult at the age of 3? Hey, kid, you want to impersonate your Mom? Here's an idea: Fill a coffee mug to the brim with red wine, draw wrinkles around your lips, and smoke a pack of ciggs in the toilet while telling your best friend over the portable phone how you and your husband haven't done it in 2 years because he thinks you're too "stretched out." There you go... just like Mom!

Normally kids can move really fast. But this little lass in front of me was taking her sweet-butt time scanning all the canned fruits low enough for even the most elderly corpse to spot. Any attempts to go around her were futile as, you guessed it, her mother (why in italics, I don't know, but in my head that's how I say it) blocked the entire path, gazing down towards the world's greatest treasure. "Excuse me." I said. No response. I am invisible next to the glaring golden rays shooting out of her angel's halo. The toddler resumed her 1 BPH (block per hour) speed as mother followed closely. Cut to me, hopping back and forth on each foot just dying to get past them. It took me nearly a whole minute to get by. A whole minute! My hummus, tragically, spoiled.

Why this whole story? I tell it to you for one simple reason:

It was the first time in my life I have ever wanted to kill a child. Yes, to murder a harmless child! At least, one that was full term and not stuck inside of me.

What's next? Grocery carts for dooogs? On second thought, look how adorable that is. In fact, if I was stuck behind a dog pushing a cart at the market, I'd follow patiently for a while, as a steady stream of urine simultaneously ran down my legs.

If you're truly bored, check out these reviews people actually sat down and wrote for the "Little Helper's Grocery Cart." Mrs. Gresh (who rated it as four stars, and is also completely fucking out of her mind) says: "I like taking this to the store rather than having her use the kid size carts that are already there because of the germs. I know her hands are the only ones that touch this cart and therefore we have no germ transfer. I do wipe off the wheels after an especially busy shopping day; I don't want all that mess in the house."

Mrs. Gresh: "I 'ont laihke to bring germs in tha house."

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