I was just getting some groceries. A cheap steak to fry up at the end of the week, some cherry pop, milk, corn flakes, miscellaneous fruits and vegetables that end up sitting in my fridge for months, going rotten before I ever bring myself to eating them. It was all going according to routine when this tall, blonde woman packed in a low-cut white dress strutted towards me in the cereal isle and I didn’t want her to get uncomfortable and think I was ogling her, so I did a turn-around and changed my route to the register to go through the magazine isle. Back at home; they didn’t have magazines like this at the supermarkets. Skin-mags, Tijuana-Bibles, comic books, pulp books. All the most blush-ensuing sex and violence one could imagine and suburban mothers wheel their toddlers right through it in their shopping carts to get to the Captain Crunch.
I’ve never bought a magazine in my life, or a comic-book for that matter. My Father was a very strict Baptist preacher, and was one of the main organizers of our town’s yearly comic book burning. One of my friends lent me an issue of Captain Explosion and my Mother found it hanging out of my back-pack after school. She nearly disowned me and probably would have if I hadn’t promised to make it up to God by spending all of my after-school time and week-ends volunteering at the church. I hadn’t even read a single panel of the thing and my parents were beating me raw and apologizing to Jesus for me...needless to say I’ve never even thought about getting anywhere near this aisle.
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