I Hate Them All



I hate them all. Each and every one of them. Oh god, how I hate them; the schoolchildren that wander in with their greedy eyes, shoving each other around the aisles, knocking my wares onto the floor and laughing when I tell them to pick them up, that Bronson boy and his cronies that hang around outside smoking and leering at me through the windows; the legion of bored housewives and busybodies, Mrs Peaverton at the head of them with her blue dye and inane chatter, talking me into an early death for the sake of a dozen eggs and a copy of the TV Guide; the chinese family that moved in last year, skulking around like goddamn rats, picking everything up and buying nothing; Mr Nazir and his slimy skin, sweating all over my products and walking around like the living dead; oh God, how I hate them. This town will be the death of me.

Just today I had to endure a half hour lecture from Mrs Peaverton about the mess the workmen made cutting down the old oak tree in the park and the children that have migrated to outside her house where they kick balls around at all hours. "Oh Mr Knead, in my day parents had control of their children, they showed respect, they had manners! But not today, of course. This generation is going straight to hell and we're all being dragged along for the ride!" I sat there and I nodded and I tried to catch the football game on my TV on the counter, but she wouldn't let me be. I asked her a hundred times if she wanted me to price up her items, hoping she'd get the message, and she ignored me each time. If you want my opinion, the older generation isn't any better, it's just a different kind of shit. It don't smell no better. This whole town stinks to high heaven.