Grocery heaven

There is this virus spreading in England, slowly but surely crawling across the island, infecting one town after another and it's only a matter of time until the whole world is going to be affected by it. Countless horror movies begin with the exact same scenario. I am, of course, talking about Tesco.

Tesco is the mother of all supermarkets. And lots of people love to protest against them, because with every new store they open up, lots of smaller businesses have to close down, because they cannot compete with their low prices and huge selection. I don't give a fuck. I love Tesco.

And yes, this blog entry is seriously gonna be about supermarkets, so if you were expecting witty and funny today, move along.
Back in Germany, I hated grocery shopping. There's one chain in particular, Rewe, which I hate so much, I considered making it my new religion. You know, gather 12 disciples, go on a pilgrimage from one Rewe store to the next to torch every last one of them. And shoot everybody who runs outside, customers and shop assistants alike.

The store back in my home town was particularly shitty. They would hire ancient, scaredy old ladies, which is generally a nice thing, but it makes a supermarket highly inefficient. Not only does hiring the living dead result in hour-long queues at the conveyour belts, but it also means they're always scared shitless, avoiding dialogue and simple eye contact at any cost. No hello, good day, thank you, nothing - heck, I've tried greeting them first and they put a whole lot of effort into being unable to hear and see me.

To make things a little more fun, it's kind of a German tradition to completely re-arrange supermarket shelves every couple of weeks, meaning you'll never know where the fuck you need to go to buy the same damn shit you've bought the last time you were there. Some say they do that to entertain customers by making grocery shopping feel like an epic adventure, others say they want you to look at aaaaall their fancy products while you're trying to find that fucking can of tuna, which used to sit on a shelf that now contains all sorts of instant coffee.

Another fancy tradition is some ancient concept known as the 'opening hours'. If you want to shop at night or on a Sunday, you're fucked. And to save time, the clever people working at Rewe had the great idea to hire a bunch of retarded 16 year olds to restock the shelves during said fucking opening hours, preferrably exactly while you're shopping there. And you've not felt true happiness in life until you've maneuvered a trolley around fat, stupid mothers with fat, stupid children, the walking dead and some retarded 16 year old with a massive palette full of cat food, who couldn't for the life of him figure out where he's supposed to put that shit. And the shop is getting more and more crowded by the minute, because it's Saturday and people can't do their shopping on Sundays. And all the good stuff is already gone, because people are shopping like it's the last fucking day on earth.

Oh yes, fat, stupid mothers! Genetics! It's a scientific fact: Stupid children have stupid parents! Whenever you see a fat, dumb, sticky, screaming, moaning, whining, annoying kid rampaging around a supermarket and getting on everyone's nuts, you can be sure as hell that their mother, who is busy ignoring the kid somewhere at the other end of the shop, is in every way as fat, dumb and sticky. When assholes breed, they exclusively create more assholes. The world needs more homosexuals. To be fair, though, fat, dumb kids aren't a German phenomenon. They're everywhere.

However, shopping in England means I can do so at 3 in the morning. I can do it on a Sunday. I can do it at times where I can pretty much rule out the possibility that there will be vast amounts of stupid mothers with stupid children. There is no such thing as opening hours. Or assholes constantly re-arranging the whole damn place, so you never know where to find your stuff. But the best feature of all, the one thing that makes life so much better is the club card!


Yes, I know. They use that to analyze my shopping habits, they keep track of my favourite products, they spy on me. They know I buy toilet paper and they can probably figure out I have an ass, which I tend to use on a daily basis. So fucking WHAT? How is that a bad thing? How can they ever possibly use this against me? "You are going to work for our government now, or else we will inform your family that you have not purchased any shampoo or tooth paste in over three months!" Yeah, right.

You know why that card is so sweet? It puts all my favourite products on their website. So I log on to that website and instead of having to click through 38 quazillion pages worth of shit I don't want to buy, it only lists the stuff I always buy whenever I go to Tesco. So I just click on all my favourites, set a convenient time and date and before I know it, the shopping fairy will knock on my door, delivering cookies and muffins and several metric tons of dead animal matter.

Sure, the delivery lady looks a bit like the heavier, uglier sister of Bertha from 'Two and a Half Men'. But somehow she needs to carry all of the shit I have ordered. I'd much rather have that stuff delivered by bikini models, but bulimia usually doesn't go hand in hand with physical strength. It's a small drawback I'm willing to accept. I have officially evolved and given up on being a caveman. I no longer go outside to bring home the bacon. The bacon is coming to me. Life is good!

So you hate Tesco, because they're everywhere, they're a large, faceless, greedy company, who destroy all the local stores and shops? Hahaha! I don't care! I'm waiting for my next delivery of bacon!

-Cat