Walking into this ever-crowded place seems to change everybody – me included – into a dead-eyed zombie pushing an undersized shopping cart around like they’ve enlisted in the world’s most boring demolition derby.
One soulless person just listlessly walking around staring at the ever-changing shelves is bad enough. But at Trader Joe’s, every day seems like Black Friday. People cram into the aisles – which seem much smaller than other places, but that might also just be my mind imploding – and then start smashing around like they just took bath salts. There are collisions. There are traffic jams as people stand mid-aisle mouthing the names of spices. The odds of you getting out of there without at least ramming into some poor bastard’s Achilles are slim. You will likely bleed. But try not to go to the bathroom, because people are likely lined up down the aisle to get in there, too. And they’re not in a rush to get out.
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That’s the nightmare inside, but outside is its own horror show. Every single Trader Joe’s parking lot is like purgatory for people who hate parking lots… you’d think the tiny aisles would have freed up some parking spaces outside. And once you finally park, you’re forced to endure a legion of clipboard-wielding slacktivists who ask “do you have a second for the environment” outside the doors when you just want to buy your goddamned plastic-wrapped fruits.
Then there’s the sample area, where people turn from soulless vessels wandering a mediocre wasteland into ravenous, lusting hyenas who just found a wounded gazelle. But here’s the thing: A wounded gazelle probably tastes better than some shitty breadstick dipped in fondue. Yet the area near the counter is like a mosh pit filled with old people, kids, hipsters, stoners, and soccer moms. Thanks for the thimble of free coffee, TJ. It was totally worth being body-checked by a septuagenarian eager for a free nibble of cheesecake.
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I’m beginning to think that this place was designed to fuck with us as part of some grand social experiment. How else do you explain the register, where you have to unload your whole cart onto some tiny platform shelf as the Hawaiian-clad clerk haphazardly scans your stuff. “Do I bag it myself,” you wonder, then BONG! Some dickhead rings the big-ass bell overhead. At first, I thought it meant somebody won something. But no. It’s because they don’t use an intercom system. They communicate by bells. Loud bells right above your head. (Side note, never go to this place hungover.)
They’re using alternate, antiquated forms of communication. Yes. This place is an experiment. And we’re all the subjects. But hey! There’s cheap wine!
Source: https://t-tees.com
Category: WHY
