I don’t like grocery shopping.

Since I live in an apartment and don’t really share much food with my roommates, I’m there by myself most times, and it’s an unsettling experience.  My fellow shoppers are self-absorbed and uncaring; the only things that exist in their world are groceries, their precious time, and, in some cases, their bratty children.  The people restocking the shelves glare at me as I pass them in the aisles, thinking “it’s because of you that I have to deal with my overbearing, pushy, moronic boss.”  Even the cantaloupes seem to wail “NOOOBODY LOOVES YOUUUUU” as I pass them.

Looking for a way to stave off the soul-crushing loneliness of solo grocery shopping, I went onto Ebay and found an old Skannerz toy to keep myself entertained.  I got pretty into it, too.  Finally, I could realize my childhood dream of seeing whether Chef Boyardee or the Spaghetti-O would win in a fight without putting two cans of mediocre pasta on a table and staring at them for an hour before realizing no blows would be exchanged.  I even took my Campbell’s Tomato Soup monster to an art museum once just so he could receive a +5 Warhol bonus.

One day, I was playing the game and waiting in the checkout line when I saw a young boy with the exact same game.  I guess his mother purposefully kept him at least 10 years behind on toys; he was coddling a Tickle-Me Elmo and had a Game Boy Color in his pocket.  I approached him and asked, “Hey, want to have a battle?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna kick your butt, old man,” he replied with about all the menace a small child can muster.

I am 19 years old.  I was not going to stand for that kind of talk.  “Oh, you’re on now.”  I won the first battle decisively.

“Old person luck,” he spat.  We fought again.  I beat him even more badly this time.

“Good game!”  I offered my hand.  He stuck his tongue out at me.

Now, I realize I should have been the bigger man here.  I should have just ignored him, purchased my mangoes (which I only bought to spite the cantaloupes), and driven back to my apartment.

Instead, I said, “Maybe you’d be better if you didn’t spend so much time trying to lick people.”

The kid punched me.  Now, he couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11 years old, so it ordinarily wouldn’t have hurt that much.

Kids his age don’t ordinarily know where the solar plexus is, either.

Winded, I staggered back and fell into a large stand-up display of cans just as the manager happened to be walking past.  The display toppled and landed on the manager, knocking him cold onto the ground.  The next thing I know, the kid is crying, and I’m being hoisted into the air on the shoulders of bagboys and restockers shouting “THE TYRANT IS DEAD, GOD BLESS OUR NEW HERO!” and the assistant manager, who I recognize as the former captain of my high school rugby team, is barreling toward me and trying to shout over the cries of the newly founded Peoples’ Grocery Republic.

So that’s why I’m no longer allowed within a hundred feet of any Tom Thumb in the state of Texas.