Riddle me THIS, Batman — Is there a man, woman, child or dog above the age of 4 that has NEVER stepped in a nice, big, sticky piece of melted gum in their lives, I wanna know?
No; did NOT think so!
So I get outta my 14 year old SUV yesterday morning at the Albertson’s (grocery store, for those of you that don’t know); I’ve got my “purposeful” mindset goin’ on, ’cause I’m the Hungarian Houseboy — and as ANY proper Hungarian Houseboy knows, goin’ to the grocery is one of his JOBS, doncha know.
For me, I usually look forward to it; consuming goods & services is Job #2 for me, right behind cleaning litterboxes, scrubbing out toilets, and all the general houseboy tasks that I’ve assumed the duties of in order to try and justify my meager, miserable (from the outside lookin’ in), mundane-minion middle-aged Slacker existence — while all the REAL men are out there killing mastodons and dragging them home for their fam-balies to feast on.
So there I am — purposeful glint in eyes, focusing on maneuvering my way through the gauntlet of abandoned shopping carts (“Who can be BOTHERED pushing one’s now-empty cart another TWELVE FEET to the awaiting Cart Return — I got somewhere *I* got-to BE!”), half-assed parked HUMONGOUS Soccer Mom SUV’s (“Who can be BOTHERED parking straight-in — I got somewhere *I* got-to BE!”), mindless brain-dead MOH-RONS with their gaze permanently affixed to their iPhone screens while they’re walking through a parking lot full of MOVING, 3 TON Soccer Mom SUV’s (“Who can be BOTHERED to actually LOOK where they are GOING while they are walking — I got someone *I* got-to TEXT!”), when IT happens — FUCK ME!
Taz’ right — I step in a big, sticky, melted-to-EXACTLY-the-right-stringy-consistency, gob o’ gum. “Life turns on a dime”, as our friend Mssr. Big Steve Himself King said in his fine tome “11/22/63” — and that’s ‘zactly what happened to ME.
Stop EVERYTHING, go lean up against the vacant Cart Return rack (after pushing a coupla carts aside that were SEVEN INCHES from said Cart Return (“Who can be bothered…”ah, you know the rest), take off shoe, put socked foot down on nuclear-hot asphalt for 1/100th of one second (D’uh!), and examine “the damage”.
As the French would say — “Merde — Quelle Messe!” Out comes the pocket knife, as I begin whittling away at the Abstract Art Sculpture that has been created, like MOST Abstract Art Sculptures — “by accident” (sorry MoMA!).
Luckily, no one who passes by even NOTICES my semi-embarrassing situation, since they’re staring intently at their iPhone-delivered text messages…
Which brings me (at last!) to my POINT; to wit: Assuming for a minute that EVER’ man, woman, child and dog above the age of 4 HAS stepped on someone ELSE’s spit-out-on-the-pavement-with-absolutely-NO-REGARD-FOR-ANYONE-ELSE wad of gum (or maybe even stepped in their OWN on their return trip; or is that just TOO much to hope for in the way of Karmic payback?), then why in the name of Sufferin’ Jesus Christ would you spit your fuckin’ gum OUT on said pavement?!
Rhetorical question, I know — and why *I* refer to “them” as “the genital public” — the Defense rests, your Honor…