A Poem For Those Who Refuse To Return Their Shopping Carts
FaHooNews.com has been in operation for just over a year now. We've written numerous articles across an array of topics. Just like any great news site, though, we've found ourselves naturally progressing towards a singular focus. We've watched Fox News fight for the right and CNN stand for the left. Even our stepfather, Yahoo, has found their niche, writing about Chrissy Teigen and single-handedly keeping behavioral experts employed so they can read Trump's body language as he gets off a plane. Naturally, this left us to ask, what's our niche?
There were time's when we felt we would never find our true voice, but after 90+ articles, I think we discovered our true purpose: Calling out the sub-humans best known as Cart Terrorists.
For years, these genetic mistakes have left their shopping carts scattered in grocery store parking lots throughout the United States. You'll find their carts in the mediums, grass, parking spots, running into parked cars – Anywhere but the cart station specifically designed to house carts.
Here at FaHoo, we want to make our stance clear: Some version of capital punishment should take place when a person is found guilty of cart terrorism. Jail time, the death penalty, waterboarding – Whatever it takes to fix this national crisis. Unfortunately, until Congress gets off their lazy asses and does something about it, we'll be left with no choice but to take matters in our own hands. Like my poem, Sidewalks, I've decided to, once
again, get real passive-aggressive.
This will be the second poem included in our book set to be released in early 2021. It's dedicated to the fight against Cart Terrorists, cleverly named Carts. Enjoy…
When I pull up to the grocery store to grab some food
I find myself in quite the bad mood
Carts; everywhere, like a war had ensued
When did our laziness reach this magnitude?
The grocery cart was invented so you could shop at ease
So you could fit all that food feeding your heart disease
When you're done, return it, don't make me say please
You lazy fuck, stop acting like you're sailing the seven seas
The final straw was a cart left by an abled man
He tossed it in the rocks - zero fucks, face deadpan
After he and his wife sped off in their sedan
I began to develop my diabolical plan
I hung around the store until I ran into his wife
I sparked a conversation, and she found me to be nice.
The chatter continued, ends up she sells Herbalife
I act interested, and we exchange numbers on our mobile device
Texts started between us regarding the products she sold
But things got less innocent, and texts got more bold
I received a late-night message: she was in an empty household
She said if I came over, her night would improve tenfold
I went over to the house, and we turned on a flick
Her hand down my pants, things progressed quick,
There was no denying she was a down ass chick,
This bitty was about to get this DICK!
Nine months go by, and I go to the grocery,
And to my pleasant surprise, what do I see?
That man, his wife, and an adorable baby.
I loudly yell, "AY YO, THAT'S NOT YOUR LADY!"
He looks up; we make eye contact; he hates what he sees.
I walk up and introduce myself, "Hello, my name is Bigleys."
Fury fills his body; he's no longer at ease,
"You're the one who fucked my wife and left your business card next to my car keys!"
He tackles me, chokes me, tries to tear me apart.
I manage to say, "Maybe next time you'll return your fucking cart."
And now every time he looks at that kid,
It'll be a constant reminder of the shitty thing he did.
This could have all been avoided if he just returned his cart
But instead, he was a dick, so I fucked his sweetheart.
I hear their marriage is in shambles and lives fell apart,
And to this day, I consider that my greatest work of art.