Rabid Weasel clean-up in aisle six!

I was out breaking one of my New Year resolutions yesterday: spending far too much money in the supermarket, when I happened upon an old lady (Which is much more polite than coming across one, that's just rude and wrong, unless you're an old man and they're into that kind of thing... or a toy boy... or perhaps a gigolo whose clients frequently have pension books.) She was looking to get past, so I stopped, reversed my trolley and ushered her through.

Now normally I would expect nothing. Not even eye-contact. But with my optimistic hat on (the one with the leopard skin trim that my Hos like so much when they should be out there makin' me mo money!) I would like a smile, maybe a little nod of thanks. What I didn't expect was her to suddenly explode... Not literally -- I meant there weren't sticky little chunks of old lady all over the cereal aisle, no extra special protein in the Grandma and Honey-Nut Fruit Loops -- it was thanks she exploded with.

Which was sweet -- it's always nice to be appreciated, but what the hell is wrong with people today that a little old lady thinks it so unusual when someone's polite, that she has to bubble over with thanks? And worse: it was so unusual that she'd actually said thank you, that I had to thank her for doing so!

Seriously, at the risk of sounding like an old fart, why do people have to be such cock-weasels in supermarkets? Sullen-faced bastards shoving their trolleys of laden doom about, as if it was some sort of chore to have to actually interact with other human beings. Sullen-faced bastards who haven't got a sodding clue about that whole 'P's and 'Q's thing. Sullen-faced bastards who think everyone else should probably just fuck off and die (just as long as it's not in the jam, jellies and preserves aisle, as they're after some chunky grapefruit marmalade with deep-fried ocelot nipples) because THEY'RE DOING THEIR SHOPPING!

I think we should take a leaf out of Tyler Durden's book and start 'Polite Club'. The first rule of Polite Club is you do not talk about Polite Club!

As your exercise for this week, I want you to go out and be polite to a random stranger. And if they don't say thank you, you have my full permission to ram a rabid weasel up their fundament.

Sullen-faced bastards.