Crumby Goes Grocery Shopping

I need to beg, borrow or steal one of those handicapped license plates, dern it.

Dern it! These poor old crippled up legs of mine never get any rest. That’s why they never get a chance to heal on up. No rest!

A person might assume that driving to the grocery store might be restful. Well, not if your knee joint is constantly under terrible pressure from operating the gas pedal. Then too, driving to the grocery store is frought with* (full of) adventure. The evil doers are everywhere.

Yesterday, for example, I espied a great vehicle, a Hummer, Tactical Version, while on the way to the grocery store. That made me laugh. Laughing like that while driving to the grocery store is very distracting. I could of had a wreck. Reckon, one of Ray’s theoretical pig monkeys was at the wheel of that Hummer, Tactical Version.

Fortunately, my preferred grocery store is generally adventure free. Plus, they vend a special variety of talking yam. Those yams are always happy to espy me.

Greetings Crumby Ovate! Take me. I am the sweetest yam you ever met.

I like the short, fat yams best. Even though, they are not always the most interesting conversationalists.

Once my yams were bagged up, chattering happily in their bag, I headed over to the emollient aisle. If you are fixing to have an adventure at my grocery store, the emollient aisle is by far the most likely spot. I have actually experienced temper tantrums on the emollient aisle. That’s because all the emollient packages look exactly alike, only, confusingly different. So finding any of Rayetta’s particular emollients is always challenging.

Yesterday, I was after a particularly stealthy emollient. But the Goddess was with me. A pretty and efficient young lady was stocking the emollient aisle. She knew right where Rayetta’s particular emollient was situated. So I bought three. I should have bought them all.

Time to go see the butchers. Butchers have a lot in common with pharmacists. But never mind that. The butchers and butcher trainees at my grocery store are every bit as entertaining as the talking yams. Plus, they know more actual information. So I am always happy to visit with the butcher and butcher trainees because that is my final stop at my grocery store unless I forgot something, usually, a dairy product or cookies.

Time to head on back to the CB with my groceries. Where’s that Hummer, Tactical Version? Maybe it has run into bad trouble on South Lamar. Maybe I shall espy that Tactical Version Hummer performing evasive maneuvers. Maybe it has a machine gun and flares it can shoot off.

I wonder if any pig monkeys shop at my grocery store. I have never seen a Hummer, Tactical Version, parked out front. Yet, my grocery store vends corn and bananas. Hold it! The pig monkey, according to Ray, is a hybrid. Maybe pig monkeys don’t like corn and bananas.

Hold it! Those yams are really loud. Those yams may be scaring the people stopped at this red light. Stop that you caterwauling yams. Stop it! We are almost home.

I need to remember to let the yams ride in the cab. They get over-stimulated in the bed.

All righty then. I am returned to the relative safety of the CB. Huh-huh. You yams want to learn a new song?

Si, Master Crumby.

OK. Repeat, after me.

Crumby’s in the drive way, groceries are to home.
Yet Crumby’s crippled up, can’t tote the bags alone.
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, What shall poor Crumby do?
Teach the yams a song, yams sing along.

What’s that infernal racket out in the driveway?
Calling CB denizens, come tote the bags away.
Ray, Ray, bosom companion Ray, organize a party
to tote these bags away.

Away, away, tote the bags away.
Where’s Ray, where’s Ray, come tote these bags away.
There’s plenty soap, Rayetta, bagged up to tote away.

Yams, yams, yams, we're caterwauling yams.
Don’t leave us all out here, someone shall call the cops.
Cause we’re the famous caterwauling yams.

OK yams. That’s plenty caterwauling. Here they come.

*All my long life, I have spelled, frought with. Today, I learned there is no such word as frought. Well, f*** that. I spell, frought with is a good enough pair of words anyway, anyhow.

Yet peering back into the depths of time, and considering the ignoramuses that I learned the spell, frought with, from, it could be that I am misspelling it. It could be, the correct spell is froth with. However, the ignoramuses I associated with during those now bygone days always dropped the h sound. So I always assumed it was frought, or especialy stupid, frot. Maybe, frought falls into the same general category as hearst and chimley. Yet f*** it. I have lots to worry about besides frought. I am frought with worry.

How, for example, shall I ever guzzle a lovely yam, ever again?