…Oh yeah.

            I walked down to the grocery store and proceeded to search for the items in which I had listed for purchase.

            A carton of milk, butter, some instant soup, and a monkey. But not just any monkey. A baboon. The kind of monkey with a big, red butt. Or maybe an orangutan. The monkeys with cheeks you could live in. The ones who are so smart that they can almost speak? That’s right, they can’t speak. Stupid monkeys. Stupid like a retarded baby. Not just any retarded baby; a retarded baby whose father is paralyzed from the waist down and has to spend the rest of his days in a wheel chair. A retarded baby whose mom is a whore who has had sex with everyone in the city, except for me…Damn that baby’s mother…damn her.

            Now I had to search for the items for me to purchase. I searched vigorously through the store. Searched like Captain Hook searched for Peter Pan, but always ended up coming short because he could never find the island that Peter Pan lived on. Wait…they lived on the same island…Damn you Captain Hook…DAMN YOU. Damn you like that retarded baby’s mother…that stupid whore. Stupid like the alligator. All they do is roll in the mud and people get confused when they dry up and die in the sun. Die like when you shoot someone. They bleed and bleed and bleed and finally it’s just over. Over like when they roll the credits at the end of a movie. Over like when they say, “That’s all folks!!!” and the cartoon ends. Why do they always have multiple exclamation points at the end of that statement? They never scream it. Scream like a woman being beaten with a wet sock. She’s screaming because it feels odd and come on! Why would anyone want to be beaten by a wet sock? Wet like the whale at the bottom of the ocean. Like the water that hardens the lava. The lava that flows from the volcano because that’s what grates do to my arm. They make my blood boil so hot that my arm melts like M&M’s. They say that they don’t melt in your hands but they do.

The first item I came across was the milk. Half and half was it. Half like the cup of water that’s half full. Or is it half empty? I’m thinking it’s both. It’s half full of air, and it’s half full of water. But it’s also half empty of air and half empty of water…wait…this isn’t milk…its creamer. Creamy like milk, but not milk. Because milk isn’t creamer. Or cream. Cream is something else. Different like those people in the insane asylums. You know why they’re in there, but you pretend not to. Different like the grates in the freezers where the frost doesn’t stick to the Hot Pocket boxes. Damn those grates…damn them.

I continued my search for milk. I needed a single carton. Single like me. I’m not married. Married like that retarded baby’s paralyzed father to that whore who hasn’t made love to me. Damn her…One day I’ll be orbiting the earth with no arm and she’ll be my bride. Orbiting like the Earth orbits the sun. That big ‘mass of incandescent gas’ as They Might Be Giants calls it. Giant like the World Trade Center buildings were. They were big. Big like a- hey, there’s my milk.

I pick up the carton of milk, pleased that I was able to make so many analogies AND get my milk. Analogies. Like in those old Private Investigator movies where the guys made analogies out of every stupid thing, every two seconds. Stupid like a retarded baby, whose father is paralyzed from the waist down and-oh wait, we’ve been over this.

Anyway, I now needed to search for the butter. Search like someone on a maiden voyage looking for treasure. Treasure like what you find when you pan for gold in rivers. Rivers like those things that run with water through large pieces of land. You know? They’re called rivers. Called like when that whore calls for her retarded baby when she wants it to come to her. That stupid woman. Damn her. Damn her and her retarded baby. I hate that baby. I’m going to punch that baby one of these days. Punch like the drink you have at parties. Parties like when they get a large group of people who go out and search for something. Search Parties. Yeah.

The butter would probably be in a similar aisle. The Dairy Section.

The Dairy Section is semi-large, but smaller than some other stores I’ve been to. In such places like Costco, it’s much bigger. Bigger like the whale than the shark. Like the cow than the calf. Cows are stupid creatures. Just standing there, sleeping, giving milk to anyone who just happens to be thirsty. But cow tipping is fun. Fun like beating a turtle in the shell with an iMac monitor. Like flying around Pluto at fifty-five million miles an hour, eventually crashing into Mars on the other side of the galaxy. The Milky Way Galaxy. Milky like the carton of milk I just bought. Bought as if I were buying a new pet squirrel from some squirrel vendor in the middle of nowhere. In the middle like the free space on a bingo card, where you don’t have to wait to put a chip on it. Why is that there anyway? It really boils my blood, just like those damned freezer grates. They think they’re so hot and revolutionary but they aren’t.

I located the Dairy Section, and grabbed the butter off the shelf. Grabbed like when you pick up a rock and skip it across a nearby puddle or lake. Grabbed like when you hold on for dear life on a cliff where you can’t possibly hang on for more than ten minutes because you’re an actor in some cliffhanger movie where you can’t live until the end. You must be presumed dead like the cadavers in the morgue. Completely still, as if you were dead, despite the fact that you probably aren’t actually dead because people don’t actually die in the movies. Except for the Crow. The lead character got shot while filming. Isn’t that ironic? Shot while doing his own stunts, and right at a scene where other actors pulled out guns and shot him. And he actually got shot. Shot like the guy who tries to stop a bank robbery, with the hopes of being considered a hero for saving the day from the horrible people who are robbing the bank. Only instead of becoming heroes, they get shot and go, “I’M DEAD OMG LOL ROFLMAO!!!11” and die.

…I wonder if anyone actually says that…Hmmm...Anyway, moving on.

Now to find my dinner. The instant soup. Instant like the teleportation devices in the year 4890, where everything will be instant because of how technologically advanced we will be then. Instant like those microwave dinners that they say are instant, but really aren’t because you still have to wait about five or six minutes to let them cook in the microwave oven. Why do they call it a microwave for short? Microwaves are what it uses to cook or heat the food inside of the machine. Not the machine itself. Very odd…odd like all those stories by the infamous mastermind, Dr. Seuss. Damn him…damn him and his Grinch-y, cat in the hat, million-legged frogs that he calls Kwogerdoodles. Or something like that…I don’t remember. I never was really into Dr. Seuss.

I go to the canned food section, and search vigorously like a search party, trying to find my instant soup, for which I will eat later tonight for my dinner. Later like what the parents tell their children whenever the kids ask for something. “Maybe later,” they say but then they never do, and you end up waiting forever. Waiting like that retarded baby who’s just waiting for someone to end his pitiful existence because the only thing he has to look forward to is a father who can’t walk and mother who’s never home because she’s a prostitute and is always out doing dirty things that the baby will never be able to understand or even comprehend simply because of his mentally handicapped state. Damn that baby…and damn his mother. I hate them both, and I forever shall hate them both.

I found my instant soup.

And now for the final item. The item in which will take the longest to retrieve. The item I will have to actually work to find. The item I’ll have to look for and hope to find by chance alone, for I could never find such an item anywhere else…wait…that’s a baboon. Okay, nevermind.

I pick the baboon up and put it in the bag with the rest of my items, only to realize that I have a bag. I don’t remember having a bag, but strange things happen when you’re not paying attention. That’s what happened to all the cheese I had in my house. I stopped paying attention to it and it left me for my next-door neighbor.

Damn that cheese…damn it. I pay for my items and walk home.