Underhanded Basket
What events have conspired to unanimously lead me to today's monologue, I cannot say. Both cannot because the circumstances are mysterious and altogether otherworldly (if the word otherworldly may be used to describe events one does not understand), and cannot because even if I were able to find the words with which to describe such nefarious affairs, I am afraid that I would not have the appropriate amount of energy to force them across my lips. I am at a loss, my friends. The handbasket paradise I so cherishingly presented to you all last time has all but vanished, without so much as a trace, leaving me in a miserable combined state of stupor and torture. You may even be inclined to say that I've gone to hell in a handbasket, until you realize that the method of transportation in your idiom is paradoxically the exact device which is missing in this scenario! Oh, those beautiful, cursed things must only have appeared in great numbers before so as to taunt me and haunt me, to give me the sweet experience of resting their bracketed handles along my arm and contentedly placing items within them while browsing the aisles of this Hernando Walmart, knowing all along that ripping said handles out of my comfortable, relaxed grip would prove the ultimate cruelty! Why, to this day, I even sometimes, between my elbow and wrist, feel the faint ghostly linger of of two objects attached to and gracefully supporting an open container in which one may place a small number of goods, large enough to necessitate some mode of storage but not nearly as many as would require a bulkier, metal contraption which would be haplessly wheeled around in an unforigiving endless cycle of attempting to navigate amongst other such contraptions and wind up at the desired destinations with zero interference... OH! what terror! what sorrow! Whoever said “'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all” has clearly never suffered the unenviable fate of having only been graced by the wonderful, easily transportable presence of many mulitple handbaskets for such a painfully short period of time! Dear readers, I admit to you that, exhausted as I was upon this loss, for a span of several months I again abandoned my pursuit of handbaskets. I had learned that there was absolutely no reward, indeed that there was in addition punishment, in continuing my efforts. I was a broken man.
But over time, I healed. I did, I did. It is unbelievable, I know. But when one is presented with a haul of groceries that need some method of conveyance and only one manner with which to accomplish this objective, he is inevitably converted to that membership of the masses, that despised mecca of the shopping cart pushers. Trust me, I was an unwilling convert, but I had no other choice, no other alternative. And so I was, to the point of healing about as well as I could when – of course! – I spotted this! Yes, this green scum dared to disgrace my eyeballs! Indubitably I should have expected that these sneaky sons of picnic hampers would come back for another round of wretched, dishonorable game play. For, to be sure, this is all a game to them! These handbaskets, I have come to discover, know no more than how to inflict merciless pain on a man whose only desire is to have a reasonable alternative to rolling a giant four-wheeled bucket around a store. This particular barbarity, I surmise, is one and the same as that which initially prompted me to commence the fateful search for more of his party of monstrous brethren, only with a new coat of hideous green paint serving as a purposefully ineffective disguise so as to mock me and my original assessment of the situation as something to be joyous about. In fact, I scoff at myself for emoting as such! I have seen him three times now, in various placements around the salesfloor as before, but only bothered to photograph him this once, not out of excitement as previously (like I would have been apt to do in my younger, innocent days), but to out him once and for all as a menace to handbasket-loving society. The truth is out there: handbaskets are not a reasonable alternative to shopping carts after all. Rather, they are, quite simply... MEAINE-FACED JERKS! (sob, sob) Do not expect another update from me, my friends. My handbasket-hunting days (sob) are over. I resign. You've won.
You hear me?
YOU'VE WON, YOU BLACK-HEARTED BASKETS!!
(sob)
(c) 2017 Retail Retell
These places are public so these photos are too, but just as I tell where they came from, I'd appreciate if you'd say who :)
Underhanded Basket
What events have conspired to unanimously lead me to today's monologue, I cannot say. Both cannot because the circumstances are mysterious and altogether otherworldly (if the word otherworldly may be used to describe events one does not understand), and cannot because even if I were able to find the words with which to describe such nefarious affairs, I am afraid that I would not have the appropriate amount of energy to force them across my lips. I am at a loss, my friends. The handbasket paradise I so cherishingly presented to you all last time has all but vanished, without so much as a trace, leaving me in a miserable combined state of stupor and torture. You may even be inclined to say that I've gone to hell in a handbasket, until you realize that the method of transportation in your idiom is paradoxically the exact device which is missing in this scenario! Oh, those beautiful, cursed things must only have appeared in great numbers before so as to taunt me and haunt me, to give me the sweet experience of resting their bracketed handles along my arm and contentedly placing items within them while browsing the aisles of this Hernando Walmart, knowing all along that ripping said handles out of my comfortable, relaxed grip would prove the ultimate cruelty! Why, to this day, I even sometimes, between my elbow and wrist, feel the faint ghostly linger of of two objects attached to and gracefully supporting an open container in which one may place a small number of goods, large enough to necessitate some mode of storage but not nearly as many as would require a bulkier, metal contraption which would be haplessly wheeled around in an unforigiving endless cycle of attempting to navigate amongst other such contraptions and wind up at the desired destinations with zero interference... OH! what terror! what sorrow! Whoever said “'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all” has clearly never suffered the unenviable fate of having only been graced by the wonderful, easily transportable presence of many mulitple handbaskets for such a painfully short period of time! Dear readers, I admit to you that, exhausted as I was upon this loss, for a span of several months I again abandoned my pursuit of handbaskets. I had learned that there was absolutely no reward, indeed that there was in addition punishment, in continuing my efforts. I was a broken man.
But over time, I healed. I did, I did. It is unbelievable, I know. But when one is presented with a haul of groceries that need some method of conveyance and only one manner with which to accomplish this objective, he is inevitably converted to that membership of the masses, that despised mecca of the shopping cart pushers. Trust me, I was an unwilling convert, but I had no other choice, no other alternative. And so I was, to the point of healing about as well as I could when – of course! – I spotted this! Yes, this green scum dared to disgrace my eyeballs! Indubitably I should have expected that these sneaky sons of picnic hampers would come back for another round of wretched, dishonorable game play. For, to be sure, this is all a game to them! These handbaskets, I have come to discover, know no more than how to inflict merciless pain on a man whose only desire is to have a reasonable alternative to rolling a giant four-wheeled bucket around a store. This particular barbarity, I surmise, is one and the same as that which initially prompted me to commence the fateful search for more of his party of monstrous brethren, only with a new coat of hideous green paint serving as a purposefully ineffective disguise so as to mock me and my original assessment of the situation as something to be joyous about. In fact, I scoff at myself for emoting as such! I have seen him three times now, in various placements around the salesfloor as before, but only bothered to photograph him this once, not out of excitement as previously (like I would have been apt to do in my younger, innocent days), but to out him once and for all as a menace to handbasket-loving society. The truth is out there: handbaskets are not a reasonable alternative to shopping carts after all. Rather, they are, quite simply... MEAINE-FACED JERKS! (sob, sob) Do not expect another update from me, my friends. My handbasket-hunting days (sob) are over. I resign. You've won.
You hear me?
YOU'VE WON, YOU BLACK-HEARTED BASKETS!!
(sob)
(c) 2017 Retail Retell
These places are public so these photos are too, but just as I tell where they came from, I'd appreciate if you'd say who :)