always at fry’s

At least 10 peo­ple at Fry’s are un­aware of where to check out.

I was stand­ing at the ser­vice cen­tre and every per­son over 50 was in­cred­i­bly con­fused, wan­der­ing, drool­ing, ut­ter­ing what sim­ple one syl­la­ble words they could muster af­ter spend­ing hours, pos­si­bly days, lost in the labyrinthi­an su­per­store gi­ant that is Fry’s Elec­tron­ics.

One woman must have been there for years as she mum­bled some­thing about mu­sic, on what was once known as CDs – mu­sic discs she called them – did Fry’s stop sell­ing them she ges­tured ges­tic­u­lat­ing ges­tu­ral­ly.

—blu

Flom­mist Blu is an enig­ma. A metaphor wrapped in an al­le­go­ry. ‘I am Jack’s colon. If I get can­cer, I kill Jack.’ Copy­right © 2015 mech­a­nizzm. All rights re­served. 

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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