I try to go to the grocery store late at night. But this time, it couldn’t be helped. So there I was at a busy grocery south of OSU right around 6pm. It was packed.
I prefer the self-checkout line. It’s usually faster. But the line was seriously backed up and starting to snake around behind the regular lanes.
An older guy in a yellow suit two people behind me had enough. He started yelling at the top of his lungs, dropping F-bombs like a WWII B-52 carpet-bombing factories.
“What the hell is this bull****??!!” he yelled. (I invite you to drop the F-bombs in there where you like. Wherever you decide to put them will be right because it was every other word.)
Now, it’s not unusual to have crazy characters yelling around this store. They congregate here.
But, this guy was off the charts.
At first, people pulled back, not knowing what he might do next. Is he insane?
He kept yelling, telling the employees what they were doing wrong, dumbfounded they had let the line get so long and that no one seemed to care.
He continued barking orders and yelling at employees as if he owned the joint.
And it was working. He was so angry and emphatic, so loud and profane, the young workers started running around to escape his wrath.
Suddenly the entire store was humming with efficiency. New cashiers appeared out of thin air to open previously closed lanes.
The lines started moving. Bags filled with groceries, machines jangled and beeped, and customers rushed out to their cars, just happy to be out of the chaos. The logjam began to loosen up.
The f***s kept coming, flying through the air before pounding the ground like thousands of hailstones bouncing off a country road during a summer storm in Texas.
He turned to me. “See, they were just being f-bomb lazy!”
“Well, your method is working. Are you in the grocery business?”
“Nah, I’m a chef.”
Something tells me he has things under control in the kitchen.