Dear Costco

Dear Costco,

Why can't I just walk in the store and browse? Why do you need to see a card for that? And when I don't have a card, why must you direct me toward the counter where I can get one, as if I don't understand the cryptic rituals involved in joining the Costco occult? Or let's say I even have a card. I just want to walk in and see what's up. I call it comparative shopping. Perhaps I'll buy. More than likely I'll leave because, though that 35lb burlap sack of M&M's is tempting, ultimately this place is a complete clusterfuck. A veritable orgy of savings.

So here's my promise to you, Costco; if I want to buy something, I'll have a valid card to present at the register. Until then, I'll walk in the store with my wallet closed.
___

Guess I have to hand it to them for knowing their customers. When I got back to my car, I saw this, and it made a lot of sense.



Lots of junk everywhere. Looks familiar. From the way these things are just stuffed in there like that, seems the last thing this person needs to be doing is buying in bulk. Let's have a look at the backseat.



No surprise there. Hey, is that a dead body under there? No. Guess it's just more junk. The John Denver book and a copy of Loretta Laroche's delightful romp Life is Not a Stress Rehearsal, might seem to indicate that this member of the Costco occult might be showing signs of waning, or at least that she's trying (I'm hoping "she".) In any case, good luck in your struggle, crazy-cluttered-car-full-of-junk person. I look forward to sharing the road with you.


Hey, look. It's kitty again.