4/5 Adam S. 1 year ago on Google
Oh,
my
brothers
and
sisters,
let
me
weave
you
a
tale
of
this
absolutely
horrorshow
temple
of
vittles
-
the
great
supermarket,
Coles.
Upon
entry,
one
can't
help
but
be
dazzled
by
the
colorful
displays
of
edible
items,
stretching
like
the
streets
of
old
ultra-London.
The
air
is
thick
with
the
scents
of
the
many
munchy-wunchies,
from
fresh
fruit
to
succulent
slovos
of
meats,
beckoning
the
discerning
droog
to
embark
on
a
culinary
adventure.
As
I
grazed
through
the
aisles,
weaving
through
the
masses
of
vecks
and
cheenas,
I
stumbled
upon
the
produce
section,
where
the
brightly
coloured
platties
were
stacked
in
neat
rows,
ripe
and
inviting.
The
oranges
and
apples,
as
round
as
Beethoven's
9th,
had
me
smacking
my
raskazz
in
anticipation.
In
the
depths
of
the
dairy
department,
my
glazzies
feasted
upon
the
korova
milks
and
cheeses,
surrounded
by
a
fortress
of
yogurt
pots
-
a
veritable
droog's
paradise.
And
no
self-respecting
veck
could
resist
the
siren
call
of
the
frozen
delights
section,
where
ice-cream
drumsticks
sang
their
sweet
symphony,
tempting
me
to
indulge
in
their
creamy
decadence.
Yet,
Coles
was
not
all
milk
and
honey,
my
brothers
and
sisters.
It
held
its
fair
share
of
dark
secrets.
The
dreaded
checkout
line
was
a
true
test
of
one's
endurance.
An
array
of
vecks,
with
devilish
grins
plastered
on
their
litsoes,
operated
the
cash
registers
with
a
speed
that
would
make
moloko
curdle.
It
was
here
that
the
anxiety
gnawed
at
my
gulliver,
as
the
crushing
realization
dawned:
the
supermarket
had
turned
us
into
mere
cogwheels
in
the
great
capitalist
machinery.
In
the
end,
as
I
waltzed
out
of
the
gates
of
this
great
cathedral
of
consumerism,
clutching
my
newly-acquired
treasures,
I
couldn't
help
but
feel
a
sense
of
unease.
Coles
had
given
me
a
taste
of
both
heaven
and
purgatory,
wrapped
in
the
guise
of
a
supermarket.
A
real
bolshy
place,
with
an
experience
fit
for
both
angels
and
droogs.
