We didn't have a lot of groceries, but more than the express lane, and more that self-checkout would be a pain. There were three lanes open, and two had long lines. The one with only one customer had a sowapotamus cashier, and to hell with that, I said to Mrs. S that we'll pick another line. So what if we waited 5, 10 minutes? We wouldn't have to spend an hour at home washing off what the nigger touched with its filthy paws.

This was the supermarket out of our way, which doesn't have as many niggers as our local one, but there are still some mudsharks and oildrillers. There was one woman, maybe in her 30s, or could be 20 and aged from mating with a nigger. Suddenly its niglet came running around a corner, holding what might have been a roll of shelf liner. It was using it to literally hit what were luckily laundry soap containers too heavy to be moved, and the burner did nothing to stop it.