About the arse...

I've just done the thing I hate most... gone to the supermarket. Again. I wish I could go in there with dynamite and explode the whole thing, seeing it gives me such a short fuse to deal with it. I am not very cruel, but watch me in a supermarket and it turns ugly. It always does because somehow somebody has to meddle with my fuse and make it shorter. Why the hell does it always happen to me? Perhaps it's because I expect to go in there, do my business, pay and leave, without comments. Do not talk to me in any of these buildings because I give back the hell that I will be feeling. So I go in, hoping to make it as short as possible, swear under my breath because someone thinks that trolley-bumping is the same as bumping cars. It's not a game. But perhaps it's accidental so I say nothing and I instantly book 2 imaginary years on the couch. Then it's all going to be over soon, at least I think, and I wait in the flipping queue to pay for the damn things. Although my affair with Diet Coke is a solid one, somehow it doesn't look so sex in the trolley. Anyway, I wait, and just when it's my turn this macho, beer-bellied, nit-wit takes my place, because, according to him, he just has a couple of items, which turn out to be more like 20 items. What the hell? He didn't even ask and say the please magic word. Oh no, it's not happening. So I tell him so, no you've got 20 and you didn't even ask politely so back you go. He called me... a whore! Seriously, the Maltese word for it... qahba. And I didn't even try. I was looking the complete part of the mara-tad-dar or so I thought. The only flesh showing was my arms and ankles, I had a bandanna for God's sake, and he calls me a whore? So, since he was armed by 20 cans of tomato paste, I said, yeah me the whore and what are you, the kunserva pimp? He didn't get it at all, but I loved drumming it into him. He had to wait... period. And just when I was handing over my hard earned cash, my small pretty but very functional ears picked up... the Z-word and not in a nice way. He had just sentenced me to an up-the-arse fate. He blew my short fuse completely, and since I was thinking about fuses, I turned back and told him in a really whorey (?) manner, 'yeah right as if, with that short fuse of yours!'. I heard laughter, and I was so pleased. Because he was an ass hole, seemingly an expert in subjects revolving the arse. Makes sense. I am still fuming. But the Diet Coke looks so pretty in my glass... perhaps it was all worth it.