I Hate Blockbuster/Back Away Slowly, Moo

Moo and I had an exciting afternoon of errand-running, starting with a trip to the “Big Red Ball Store” for an emergency diaper run.  As we were leaving, after finding every. single. pumpkin. in the store, we strolled out and I called, “Bye, bye, big red ball store!”  Moo looked at me and furrowed her brow.  “Mommy, name is ‘Target.'”  Right.  Thanks, Moo.

Then I saw that it was getting late and decided we might as well dart over to Pei Wei for takeout.  And THEN when we had 15 minutes to wait, I figured we might as well go next door to Blockbuster to grab a couple Friday night movies.

It was a disturbing turn of events.

First – have you heard about Blockbuster’s new late policy?  I can’t even find anything about it online, but apparently they’ve changed it AGAIN so that if you keep a movie for 15 days, you’ve bought it.  It used to be they’d charge you the cost of the movie, and then refund it back to your credit card when you returned it.  Now, apparently, the ‘refund’ part of the policy is out the window.  So for $60, Herbie and I are now the proud owners of Afro Samurai and Roughnecks: The Starship Troopers Chronicles. 

I guess I should have felt sorry for the poor kid as he whined the new corporate (EVIL, THIEVING) policy at me, but Moo was trying to grab all the Milk Dud boxes, and I was trying to digest the fact that Afro Samurai would soon reside permanently in our movie collection, and I just wanted to rip off his zitty hippie-hair head and shove it up his ass.  I don’t blame Herbie or his questionable taste in possibly porno animated samurai/warrior bug flicks – it could have just as easily been me renting The Cutting Edge 3.  But clearly Blockbuster is an evil empire and we, the rebels, must destroy them.  By joining Netflix, of course.  Herbie has been bugging me to re-join Netflix (we cut back last year in a budget slim-down), and I am ready to give Netflix a big warm wet sloppy kiss – maybe even an ass-grab as well.   And then shove Afro Samurai next to Buns of Steel on the Shelf of Shame.

But wait! Then, the second disturbing event occurred.  As Zit Boy scrambled around trying to find our newly-purchased copies of Afro Roughriders, or whatever, I decided to let Moo down to run around and screw up all their displays in revenge.  She gleefully ran up and down the aisles, stopping to rearrange categories as she saw fit (Nanny McPhee best belongs in horror, don’t you agree?).  Then she slowed down by the new releases, running her hands along the movies.

“What are you doing, Moo?” I asked.

“Nooooothing.” 

Then it happened.  She paused before a movie. 

“Mommy!”

Oh no.

She picked it up.  Studied it closely.

“Mommy, I like.”

“No you don’t.  You don’t like that, Moo.”

She gave me her new glare, then looked back at the movie, reconsidering.  And came to a decision.

“Mommy, I LIKE this!”

Oh God, no.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The horror.  The horror…