Hell hath frozen over.
The Great Polar Vortex has an icy, iron grip on The Bible Belt, and has cinched it two notches too tight around the once-dreamy, picturesque town of Greenville, South Carolina.
9 degrees this morning. We are lost in the throws of madness.
The Scene at a Bi-Lo grocery store in town (“Bi-Lo” being a gimmick that has been unrealistic here in the South for quite some time) was too much for even the seasoned looter and anarchist to get a handle on.
It’s hard to focus on clearing out the bread aisle with one heavy-armed swoop when there’s a sputtering, gold ’00 Mercury Grand Marquis jammed sideways almost halfway through the entrance.
Those censored doors clanking open-and-shut, open-and-shut, relentlessly on its hood.
“What Mama don’t know, won’t hurt NOBODY!’ a grifter punk cackles.
He grabs an older woman, maybe early 70’s — one hand on the seat of her pants, the other on her collar — and bowls her into a stacked display of bright-red tubs of Folgers Classic Roast.
I try to swing on him, but he’s already crow-hopped toward the deli.
Forget it. I head toward the dairy section as giant shelves begin to topple just behind me.
The milk racks are empty, so I tuck a carton of half-and-half under my arm and barrel shoulder-first through two Bob Jones University students and a young store manager tugging on a bag of frozen chicken, leaving them all sprawled out helplessly.
Thank God I watched that Florida State/Auburn game last night, I think to myself, juking and dodging hordes of fear-hungry, desperate looters gunning for my stash.
No reason to pay, so I spin through the “Check Out Yourself” line like Jameis Winston (always, always cradling the half-and-half) and leap over the Grand Marquis and stumble to the ground one foot in front of the other in the parking lot — a little off-kilter, but I land it.
I’m greeted by the drone of horns and crunching fenders, and it’s here I sense a showdown.
I gaze to my left.
I see a soccer mom, her teeth gnashing; she’s closing in on some Hipster Metrosexual.
His eyes are as big as saucers, and he’s clutching a torn bag of Thomas English Muffins, letting it dangle menacingly. I can tell this has been going on for a while.
She rakes her nails across his face one time, and he yelps.
He cocks back and tries to knock her once with the bag, but it breaks, dumping the remaining three English Muffins.
Teetering backward, he only whiffs her with shredded plastic as those gathered to watch the brawl lunge in for bread.
She whacks his temple with a hammer-fist right, then knocks off his product-frozen bangs with a vicious left hook before shoving him backwards.
His bangs fall and break like icicles. He desperately tries to scoop them up.
I’ve had enough.
I jog back to my Periwinkle Blue Buick LeSabre (which is now almost unrecognizable due to the dents, graffiti and smeared barbeque sauce all over the windshield) and smash and crunch my way out of this horrible parking lot.
How do they deal with it up North, I wonder?
I fishtail out onto the cold, hard streets, nearly crippling a stranded motorist.