A Chapter From My New Book, Entitled, "Sliced Bread and Menopausal Chickens: What Every Parent Needs to Know"

Chapter 99

I thought 2:00 pm would be a good time to visit the local Mammoth superstore, but apparently, mostly old fucks come out here at this time of day.  They're everywhere.  It must be free napkin and jelly packet day.  Three and four wide up ahead and I'm headed against the tide.  Wait, one just came around aisle three.  Now it's five people.  I'm about to get run over.   Can't you people stay to the right?  It's a social contract that only I obey.  As per usual, I have to adjust my behavior to others.  So, I slide even farther to the right.  

There's what I presume to be a fossilized American tailing me.  I slow down.  He slows down.  I stumble to the right.  He follows.  He's much too close.  Why is he following me?  Asshole.  If I walked faster I bet I could lose him.  I'd like to give him a push and take off running down aisle four.  Then a quick right at the frozen pizzas.  He'll never catch up.

Instead I decide to make a crashing halt at the eggs.  I fold my arms, then I put my hand up to my chin and stroke it, as though I have a goatee and the eggs are a big fucking decision.  Should I get the grade A large eggs?  Should I save a few cents and get some grade C eggs?

All the eggs are grade A so it's not even a choice.  Nothing but exemplary test results from these chickens.  They must have been raised on a free-range farm.  A free-range farm means the chickens can walk all day and contemplate life, the universe, and everything.  Sort of like my day except that I don't have an egg quota.  I imagine it goes something like this:

Classical music is played for the chickens as they dine on chicken feed with white wine.  Later they are each offered a delicious desert.  Then, many of them retire to the smoking room whereupon they regale one another with stories of the day's conquests.  Challenges met, competitors bested.  A smaller number have reached menopause and they no longer produce eggs.  These chickens are sent to the slaughterhouse, where their heads are chopped off and they are sold for meat.

The fossilized American stopped at the eggs too.  What the hell?  I guess that plan didn't work.  I dart to the left and lose him.