I’m going to make sure all my affairs are in order, because after the events of last night, I am not long for this world. I’m cooked like a Christmas goose, baby. Done like dinner. I’m getting ready to buy the farm. Before you know it, I’ll be watching 227 reruns with Jesus up top. Shooting free throws with Marvin Gaye and Babe Ruth in no time.
Allow me to explain.
I went to an open mic in DC Monday night, and on my way home I went to the Giant to get some food for the late Monday night game. (Unrelated aside – Eddie Royal baby!) As the lady at the register is ringing me up, she asks me if I have a Bonus Card. In keeping with my usual stock smart-ass-for-no-reason-response to cashiers asking if I have discount cards, I say, nope. Don’t believe in them.
Suddenly, an older guy behind me offers for me to use his Bonus Card. I say, sure. Thanks, mister. He says no problem. He gets to help me out, I get a nice discount on my stuff. Good deal all around. I figured that would be the end of the interaction. The old guy presses on:
“Yeah, you can use anybody’s Bonus Card, you know. They don’t check to see if it’s yours.”
“That’s great sir, thanks for the tip.”
“This one I used right here belonged to a guy who died five years ago.”
Well, that seals it. A ghost, or zombie, or some member of the unholy undead is going to come after me with a vengeance. I don’t know a lot about the dead, or the afterlife, or how all that works, but there is no way the departed would be cool with someone using up their grocery store discounts. I metaphorically pissed on this man’s grave. And cleaned it up with Bounty, the quicker picker upper, which I was able to get a lot of due to the 2 for 1 sale Giant was having on paper towels.
Should be a lot of fun going to sleep tonight. The whole night I’ll have one eye closed, and one eye on the door, waiting to see if a spectre with chains is chilling in my doorway, ready to pounce on me for getting three 32 oz. Gatorade bottles for only a dollar each in his name. My demise is going to sound like a shitty Poe story.
Why stop there, while I’m defiling this poor dead guy’s memory? I might as well have went back in time to his funeral, walked directly up to the grieving widow, took the CVS ExtraCare card out of her pocket and said, “Welp, guess you won’t be needing this, Mama Bear!” Then kiss her on the mouth and skip out. Also, for some reason in that situation I feel like I wouldn’t be wearing any pants. Not sure why, but it would definitely compound the insult to the bereaved.
The fact that the guy who let me use the card was all smiles while he said this makes me think he was waiting for this guy to kick the bucket, all so he could cash in on those low, low prices. If that’s the case…do you know they’re free? You know they give Bonus Cards to everybody, right? They’re ridiculously easy to get. You have to be able to write and buy groceries. That’s it. Monkeys are out of luck, but you should be fine, sir. Also, there are no background checks. It’s not like someone from Giant is going to show up at your neighbor’s house a week after you sign up for it asking them questions about your life. “Does he have any kind of criminal background? Any erratic behavior you’ve noticed? Does he seem like a cart or basket guy to you? Does he strike you as the kind of person who would touch everything in the produce section and then run off?”
These all seem like very comical observations until you realize that somebody had to die for this blog to exist. That’s the harsh truth. It makes you think about how short and precious life really is. Never stop counting your blessings, and always live in the moment.
And for Christ’s sake, make sure they bury your Bonus Card with you.
As for me? I’m off to go grab a half-priced Chip Ahoy. See you in Hell, Dead Guy.