Home > Lankville Action News: YES! > “No More Fucking Around,” Vows Woman

“No More Fucking Around,” Vows Woman

December 22, 2014 Leave a comment Go to comments
By Lloyd Byas-Kirk

By Lloyd Byas-Kirk

LANKVILLE ACTION NEWS: YES!

Genevieve Rumpus (no relation to the Ida Rumpus who reports for this paper) was doing her weekly shopping last Saturday morning at the north Lankville location of Barlow Foods, trying to decide between farfalla and bowtie pasta, when a cool, authoritative voice told her, “Quit fucking around.”

She paused, startled, and glanced over her shoulder. Then she realized the voice was coming from inside her head. With that realization came another: She had been fucking around in the grocery store for the past 45 minutes.

Genevieve Rumpus not fucking around.

Genevieve Rumpus not fucking around.

“It was shocking and liberating all at the same time,” she said from her home in Lankville Heights.

Suddenly, Mrs. Rumpus began moving through the aisles with a speed and gusto she had never known before. Deciding between garbanzo and kidney beans had often been agonizing – but not on this day. She quickly tossed a can of premium garbanzo beans (or “chickpeas”) into her cart and moved on. In the cereal aisle, not glancing at other choices, she instantly selected a box of family-size Barlowberries-n-Oats.

Her biggest challenge awaited in Barlow Foods’ copious section of beer and mixers, featuring a walk-in refrigerator with bottles divided by type, size, and brightly colored 3-D labels.

“I never know what I’m in the mood for,” she complained, let alone what her husband of thirty years, Richard Rumpus, will wish to imbibe as he takes in a Sunday afternoon contest involving the Lankville Lions.

“Quit fucking around,” the voice repeated as she lingered in the walk-in cooler, wavering between a six-pack of Wynken de Wheat Light and Ashmole Amber Lager.

Barlow Foods aisle where fucking around often takes place.

Barlow Foods aisle where fucking around often takes place.

With a burst of relief, Mrs. Rumpus obeyed the voice in her head and snatched down a box of Harley’s Half Ale from the top shelf.

“I’d always wanted to try it,” she reported. “But I’d been fucking around with other beverages for years and years.”

The newfound attitude of not fucking around even extended to Mrs. Rumpus’s selection of a check-out aisle. Normally, she said, she would dither near the check-out, trying to decide between cashier Sylvie Idlestein, an old friend from occupational school, and Jimmy Feathers, known far and wide for his skill at toting up and bagging groceries.

Mrs. Rumpus spared a curt nod to her friend Ms. Idlestein and moved her loaded cart into Feathers’ check-out lane. She admitted that upon doing so, a kind of warmth spread up her spine and tingled back down through her arms and into the tips of her fingers.

“I suppose that’s what it feels like to finally stop fucking around,” she laughed, while vowing to apply the attitude to other aspects of her life, such as her adult bowling league and fingerling potato workshop.

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