Supermarket Simpletons

Asshat of the Day: Supermarket Simpletons

Because apparently “aisle” is short for “obstacle course.”

Case Study:

It’s 2025. We’ve got cars that drive themselves, phones that recognize our faces, and refrigerators that tell us when we’re low on milk. Yet somehow—somehow—we as a species still can’t grasp the radical concept of “not blocking the entire damn aisle.”

There I am, standing in Produce Purgatory, cart in hand, trying to grab a bag of spinach. Ahead: a woman parked diagonally like she’s claiming land for the crown. Behind her: a man contemplating avocados as if he’s choosing a kidney donor. On my left, a couple has decided that the intersection between dairy and frozen foods is the ideal spot to discuss weekend plans.

It’s like watching a live-action traffic jam—only slower and with more yogurt. One woman abandons her cart mid-lane to “just grab one thing,” vanishing into another aisle as her cart becomes a permanent roadblock. A teenager on FaceTime drifts sideways like a distracted Roomba. Somewhere, a toddler screams over a balloon, and an elderly man reverse-parks into the cereal display.

By the time I make it to checkout, I’ve earned a minor in patience and a PhD in suppressed rage. The self-checkout line is a graveyard of confusion—people scanning one item, pausing for applause, then fumbling for their loyalty cards like archaeologists unearthing relics. The woman in front of me has just discovered that bananas are sold by weight, and we all get to share in that moment of enlightenment.

When I finally escape, pushing my cart toward the parking lot like a war-weary veteran, I realize something profound: humanity didn’t lose its way through greed or politics—it lost it somewhere between frozen peas and the rotisserie chicken.

Diagnosis:

Terminal lack of spatial awareness, complicated by chronic obliviousness and possible cart entitlement.

Recommended Treatment:

Mandatory training in lane discipline, spatial reasoning flashcards, and a shock collar that activates when someone stops in the middle of an intersection.

Moral:

When the grocery store starts feeling like a combat zone, it’s not the spinach that’s wilted—it’s us.

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