Figure 1: GOWP (Guilty Overeducated White Person), one each, female, with dreadlocks. Note superior smirk. Knows how your life should be run, better than you.

I own an elitist German car.  Ask any Leftist.  I had just gotten back into said car after having rolled into the local Mendocino market for groceries and snark. When I got into the car I slammed the door with a tad bit more enthusiasm than customary.  My wife asked “what’s wrong?”  She’s prescient that way.

Mendocino, for the uninitiated, is Leftist Central for Mendocino County which, by extension, is pretty much LC for Fornicalia.  Bernie Sanders signs are everywhere.  The young kids wear dreadlocks and hang around Moody’s Organic Coffee Bar.  Uh yeah.  The kids are Caucasoids.  Occasionally an errant young black male makes his way through and is kindly asked to leave the town by its elders.  They have to retain its detached unicorn-and-pink-pony-filled artsy-fartsy air, you see.  As a result, no thump car, hoopti or black gangbanger with shit-stained underwear exposed in sight.  Mendocino has standards.

Let’s back up a moment.  My wife and I like to vacation by the ocean.  We live in Occupied Fornicalia so that means the Pacific Ocean.  We stay anywhere from Morro Bay in the south up to Eureka in the north.  And points beyond.  For the past two weeks we have been staying in a cottage in Mendocino.  We don’t do motels any more because we don’t much like the public, she and I.  We are both in love with each other that way.  We like to rent cottages and condos and homes.  Something with a full kitchen, big bed, Jacuzzi and a great view.

Occasionally one must needs make a shopping trip.  That happened last night at the store mentioned in the very first paragraph.  And from here the story unfolds.

There is one check stand open.  I am fifth in line with a few things in my hands.  A “few things” because I’ve forgotten my personal shopping bag.  Yes, Mendocino is one of those Leftist towns that has done away with horrible, repressive and environment-killing plastic bags.  You either bring your own or you can pay for a paper bag.  I don’t “pay” for bags.

My “bag” is a large red plastic laundry tub that I carry into a store and shove ahead of me because it mostly doesn’t fit in the aisles and it takes up altogether too much space at checkout.  Some persons have accused me of attempting to make a statement.  I disagree.  I simply find the tub practical.  Who knows just how much stuff you’re going to purchase with each market visit?  I don’t.  I want to be prepared.  I’m just not prepared today.

The guy before me has one of the small wheeled shopping carts favorited by this market.  The checker rings up his stuff, he leaves, the cart is first in line now, about even with the checker.  Three people are behind.  I am now fourth in line.  The three people behind the cart don’t move.  They seem perplexed.  Do we move the cart?  The checker should move the cart.  We shouldn’t move the cart.  We can’t touch it, it isn’t ours.  Will someone think us pushy if we touch the cart and move it out of the way?  The checker is quiet.  The three ahead of me are quiet.  It’s a standoff.  Cart vs GOWP.  At this point the cart is winning.  I can almost hear the gears grinding in the skulls of the three Leftist ‘tards before me.  I can see word balloons above their heads filled with “What do I do?” and “I don’t want to appear to be hasty.” and “What will others think if I make a decision here?”

The cart, however, still keeps winning.

BZ couldn’t take it anymore.  He tapped his Inner Sheepdog.

I stepped in front of all three, shoved the cart brusquely (I like that word) to the left, grabbed three of the wide, hard plastic separators that delineate people’s stuff on the grocery belt, and slapped them down.  “You put your shit here,” I said to the first person.  “You put your shit here,” I said to the second person.  “And you put your shit here,” I said to the third.

All three did as I said.  The checker checked.  The patrons paid.  No one said a word.  A second line was opened.  No one said a word there either.  Customers near the checkout area were quiet as they walked by.  I decided to pay in cash.  “Jesus, you pussies,” I mumbled.  “Get a fucking life.  Make a decision.”  I left the store.  I didn’t get into a Prius.

I’m sure my “performance” was talked about after I left.  They surely didn’t and wouldn’t have the guts to do so in the minute.

Figure 2: Mendocino, CA, Leftist Central for Occupied Fornicalia. Beautiful but insane.

So there you have it.  GOWPs in their finest hour.  Shocked, I tell you.  I shocked them all.  Frankly, I would like to have been a fly on the wall for the next half hour.

I feel sorry for the Mendocino County Sheriff Department deputies — the Sheepdogs — who have to respond to calls for “my dealer has been selling me inferior weed.”  Or most any other call for service in Mendocino.  Beautiful area.  Stupid sheep.

Luckily for Mendocino, wolves not allowed.

Baaaa.

BZ

P.S.

As I write this, the door to the outside deck is open.  It is raining in Mendocino and I can hear the drops hitting the skylight overhead.  I can also hear the waves crashing outside near the headlands.  The Jacuzzi is running and the fireplace crackling.  It just doesn’t get any better than this.