ScoopKona
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- May 7, 2008
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So, MIL needed new tires. I don't know why, though. She's only been driving on this set for 15 years in the freakin' desert. 
(No treads at all. Basically like driving on racing slicks.)
So Costco ran a sale on Michelins. $70 off. It ended up being the best price compared to the other tire companies in the area.
Costco, I have decided, is the fifth circle of hell on earth. Everything that is wrong with people these days can be found at Costco.
First, you turn into the parking lot and immediately almost get creamed by an elderly person making a left turn into your lane, nearly hitting you head on. She shoots you a look that says, "Why are you in my lane, whippersnapper?"
As you drive around the twisty, turny parking lot (it's twisty and turny in Henderson, NV, at least), you need to drive 2 miles an hour to avoid the zombies who walk directly into traffic without so much as a glance.
But, if you drive 2 miles an hour, the "first generation walking on hind legs" family in their monster truck roars around you, nearly hitting the 90-year old pushing the walker (who is surprisingly spry when she's about to be creamed by a four-ton truck).
Then you miss a parking spot that's only 20 feet in front of you, because a 2,000-pound family of four is pushing a shipping container full of junk food right down the middle of the street, walking four abreast -- completely filling the lane. The monster truck roars in from the other direction and takes the spot, scratching a BMW in the process. The Moron family hastily exits without leaving a note.
After finding a parking spot on the Canadian border, you walk to the store, careful to make sure you're not run over by near-simians in monster trucks and people who floor it in reverse (without looking) as they back out of their space.
You show your membership card to the greeter (whose sole job in life is to ensure that non-Costco-members don't sneak in to eat free samples). Everyone in front of you gets into the store, and immediately stops to look at the crap they have on display near the entrance. And there you wait, while the people in front of you discuss the pros and cons of a lighted, plastic bird bath with Disney's "Princess Ariel" posed on top.
Eventually a hole opens up, and you can push your grossly over-sized cart into the "raceway".
One hour until the tires are installed. No problems, I'll let Mother-In-Law do a little shopping.
There is slow.
Then there is "slow as molasses."
Then there is "slow as molasses in January."
Then there is "slow as the line at the post office four days before Christmas."
And then there is "the people milling around Costco with their carts as big as Sherman tanks."
You pass the electronics -- no big deal, then the small appliances, the kitchen items, the tools, bicycles, office equipment and then the logjam appears. Right there as the food section begins. Someone is giving away free samples of toll house cookies.
It's like the final scene in The Blues Brothers, where 200 police officers, all pointing weapons, finally arrest Jake and Elwood. Except this time it's 200 shoppers, each with a grocery cart the size of a dump truck, all waiting in a big clump while the lady with the paper hat cooks up samples of toll house cookies, six at a time.
Children wail as if being beaten with a flail, "I want a cookie. Nnnnnnoooowwwwwwwwwwwwww!
"You'll get your cookie soon."
But I want it NNNNOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWW Waaaaahhhh!
Leaving the poor mother and her emotional extortionist of a child, you sneak away from the cookie lady around the mountains of bagels to where the good stuff is. Along the way you pass signs like, "Entire side of beef, $2.99 a pound, 300 lb. minimum." Or, "Box of 72 cornish game hens, $19.99"
Along the way, I kid you not, is flour being sold 45-pounds at a time in 5 gallon buckets. Aside from a pizzeria, who needs that much flour? How on earth do they expect me to go through 45 pounds of flour before it goes stale. Even at 50 cents per pound, there's no way. I just don't bake that much bread!
You pick up a few things you can use -- coffee, some nice trout for dinner, a big box of granola, and a week's supply of yogurt.
There, you're done. Oh no you're not! You walk ever so slowly to the cash registers. Step by step, inch by inch, like Frodo and Sam straining to climb the last steps of Mount Doom. You fight your way around the crowds that have gathered around more ladies in paper hats trying to give away the most ridiculous food and health items ever conceived:
"Try some Cap'n Crunch soup?"
"Try some Jimmy Dean sausage souffle?"
"Try some Joint Juice? It tastes like an orangutang's nether regions!"
"Try this suppository?"
You finally make it to the cash register. You're only 15th in line. Even better, all the people in front of you have small purchases -- like a 64" television, a Barcalounger, and a metric ton of onions. This shouldn't take too long and.... Oh, crap, someone is paying with nickles.
The next person tries to pay with Visa. Nope, buddy, Amex or cash only. You're outta here. Let me get a crane to take those purchase out of the way. The person directly in front of you tries to pay with a post-dated, third-party check drawn on the Bank of Baghdad.
You whip out your Amex card and pay for your four items. And then, you stop. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.
The millions of huddled masses, yearning to be free all push their barcaloungers, their televisions, their gas grills (with built in refrigerators!) slowly, inexorably toward the 102-year old man who compares the items in the cart with the receipt.
Did I mention the pizza parlor between you and the door?
What looks like "a day's worth of Disneyland visitors" and enough food and merchandise to outfit a third world nation is all that stands between you and freedom. They're smearing pizza all over everything while their miserable little whelps scream at the top of their lungs for no apparent reason. Two hours later, you finally make it to the old man at the gate. Let's call him, "Yoda."
"Trout that is not," he says.
Yes it is. It's steelhead trout. It's a kind of trout that looks like salmon.
"My manager I will have to call," he says. "Learn the ways of the force while call him I do."
The people behind you give you a look that would curdle milk as Yoda shuffles towards the customer service desk. He shows the receipt to his manager, who waves you on.
Finally, you pack your four little items into your car. Someone has dinged your door and not left a note. A monster truck is parked next to you.
And that concludes my rant.
(No treads at all. Basically like driving on racing slicks.)So Costco ran a sale on Michelins. $70 off. It ended up being the best price compared to the other tire companies in the area.
Costco, I have decided, is the fifth circle of hell on earth. Everything that is wrong with people these days can be found at Costco.
First, you turn into the parking lot and immediately almost get creamed by an elderly person making a left turn into your lane, nearly hitting you head on. She shoots you a look that says, "Why are you in my lane, whippersnapper?"
As you drive around the twisty, turny parking lot (it's twisty and turny in Henderson, NV, at least), you need to drive 2 miles an hour to avoid the zombies who walk directly into traffic without so much as a glance.
But, if you drive 2 miles an hour, the "first generation walking on hind legs" family in their monster truck roars around you, nearly hitting the 90-year old pushing the walker (who is surprisingly spry when she's about to be creamed by a four-ton truck).
Then you miss a parking spot that's only 20 feet in front of you, because a 2,000-pound family of four is pushing a shipping container full of junk food right down the middle of the street, walking four abreast -- completely filling the lane. The monster truck roars in from the other direction and takes the spot, scratching a BMW in the process. The Moron family hastily exits without leaving a note.
After finding a parking spot on the Canadian border, you walk to the store, careful to make sure you're not run over by near-simians in monster trucks and people who floor it in reverse (without looking) as they back out of their space.
You show your membership card to the greeter (whose sole job in life is to ensure that non-Costco-members don't sneak in to eat free samples). Everyone in front of you gets into the store, and immediately stops to look at the crap they have on display near the entrance. And there you wait, while the people in front of you discuss the pros and cons of a lighted, plastic bird bath with Disney's "Princess Ariel" posed on top.
Eventually a hole opens up, and you can push your grossly over-sized cart into the "raceway".
One hour until the tires are installed. No problems, I'll let Mother-In-Law do a little shopping.
There is slow.
Then there is "slow as molasses."
Then there is "slow as molasses in January."
Then there is "slow as the line at the post office four days before Christmas."
And then there is "the people milling around Costco with their carts as big as Sherman tanks."
You pass the electronics -- no big deal, then the small appliances, the kitchen items, the tools, bicycles, office equipment and then the logjam appears. Right there as the food section begins. Someone is giving away free samples of toll house cookies.
It's like the final scene in The Blues Brothers, where 200 police officers, all pointing weapons, finally arrest Jake and Elwood. Except this time it's 200 shoppers, each with a grocery cart the size of a dump truck, all waiting in a big clump while the lady with the paper hat cooks up samples of toll house cookies, six at a time.
Children wail as if being beaten with a flail, "I want a cookie. Nnnnnnoooowwwwwwwwwwwwww!
"You'll get your cookie soon."
But I want it NNNNOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWW Waaaaahhhh!
Leaving the poor mother and her emotional extortionist of a child, you sneak away from the cookie lady around the mountains of bagels to where the good stuff is. Along the way you pass signs like, "Entire side of beef, $2.99 a pound, 300 lb. minimum." Or, "Box of 72 cornish game hens, $19.99"
Along the way, I kid you not, is flour being sold 45-pounds at a time in 5 gallon buckets. Aside from a pizzeria, who needs that much flour? How on earth do they expect me to go through 45 pounds of flour before it goes stale. Even at 50 cents per pound, there's no way. I just don't bake that much bread!
You pick up a few things you can use -- coffee, some nice trout for dinner, a big box of granola, and a week's supply of yogurt.
There, you're done. Oh no you're not! You walk ever so slowly to the cash registers. Step by step, inch by inch, like Frodo and Sam straining to climb the last steps of Mount Doom. You fight your way around the crowds that have gathered around more ladies in paper hats trying to give away the most ridiculous food and health items ever conceived:
"Try some Cap'n Crunch soup?"
"Try some Jimmy Dean sausage souffle?"
"Try some Joint Juice? It tastes like an orangutang's nether regions!"
"Try this suppository?"
You finally make it to the cash register. You're only 15th in line. Even better, all the people in front of you have small purchases -- like a 64" television, a Barcalounger, and a metric ton of onions. This shouldn't take too long and.... Oh, crap, someone is paying with nickles.
The next person tries to pay with Visa. Nope, buddy, Amex or cash only. You're outta here. Let me get a crane to take those purchase out of the way. The person directly in front of you tries to pay with a post-dated, third-party check drawn on the Bank of Baghdad.
You whip out your Amex card and pay for your four items. And then, you stop. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.
The millions of huddled masses, yearning to be free all push their barcaloungers, their televisions, their gas grills (with built in refrigerators!) slowly, inexorably toward the 102-year old man who compares the items in the cart with the receipt.
Did I mention the pizza parlor between you and the door?
What looks like "a day's worth of Disneyland visitors" and enough food and merchandise to outfit a third world nation is all that stands between you and freedom. They're smearing pizza all over everything while their miserable little whelps scream at the top of their lungs for no apparent reason. Two hours later, you finally make it to the old man at the gate. Let's call him, "Yoda."
"Trout that is not," he says.
Yes it is. It's steelhead trout. It's a kind of trout that looks like salmon.
"My manager I will have to call," he says. "Learn the ways of the force while call him I do."
The people behind you give you a look that would curdle milk as Yoda shuffles towards the customer service desk. He shows the receipt to his manager, who waves you on.
Finally, you pack your four little items into your car. Someone has dinged your door and not left a note. A monster truck is parked next to you.
And that concludes my rant.
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