For you lucky non-North American GTers, Home Depot is an orange-flavored shit-box that sells us axes, grills, plants, plumbing equipment and lumber all in one handy location. Because Mr. MacNasty is one handy sorciafucker, he spends an inordinate amount of time there, buying nails and staple guns and fuck knows what else. Yet he lives under a terrible curse. Every time he walks through the doors, something INSANE happens and it takes him roughly 8 hours to leave the store vs. 15 minutes.

Today, he went to buy a grill. Our anniversary is coming up, and given that grilling is the only cooking he's willing to do (also: ALLOWED to do, since he does simply awful shit to my cookware), we thought it would be a nice joint present to ourselves. We talked about the cost, looked at different models online, then set off to simply buy the damn thing at Home Fucking Depot.

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First of all, the salesman tries talking us into a CHEAPER (and yes, crappier) grill. What kind of sales training did they give you, guy? Mr. MacNasty simply tells him we know which one we want and points at the floor model. The salesman then says they don't have any in stock besides the floor model. Mr. MacNasty points up at, lo and behold, a pristine model in the box, up on the tippy-top shelf, like 1000 some feet above our heads. Home Fucking Depot is a big ass place, I feel I should mention. A veritable cavern of tools, paint and human suffering. The salesman SIGHS, like we are burdening him. Then he gets on a walky-talky and three yahoos show up — one to work the forklift required to get the damn thing down, one guy to work the FLAGS that are required in this intricate goddamn process, and one guy to direct the other two. It's a fucking parade. Two of the guys are wearing Confederate flags on their gear. One also has a chaw of dip in his lip. Because... the South.

They manage to eventually get the box down, put it on a be-wheeled cart, and we make our way to the check-out. Which is only self-service. On a Saturday. At the biggest home-improvement store in the area. We can't physically scan the thing, and a cashier eventually comes over, opens a lane just for us, scans the thing with her wand, and... the price is wrong. We look carefully then at the box — they brought down the wrong grill. Of course. The Confederate Flag is not traditionally a recognized sign of successful ingenuity, so we should have known. The cashier meanwhile panics, then claims she can't just void it out, and insists we have to pay for the thing, whereupon she then returns it. This takes an obscene amount of time.

Finally, back we go to the grill section. The salesman actually pales to see us again. Mr. MacNasty points out the error, as kindly as he can manage.

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Out comes the clown parade, complete with flags (which makes me wonder if Home Fucking Depot's policies keep them in a special holding cell in the back somewhere, since they only come out for such occasions). They go back up, but on the way, the captain of the forklift rams right the fuck into a tall heat lamp, mangling it and getting the forklift stuck. This takes a while to be worked out. At this point, I'm sort of thinking the place will be a heap of ash in our rear-view mirror if/when we ever finally depart. AT LAST, they get the right grill, bring it down, and then realize they didn't take the wrong one back up and it's still sitting on the cart. They none-to-gently move it to the floor, then place the correct grill back on the wheels. Then they stare at the other, wrong grill, puzzled. We leave quickly, before we can be implicated in any way with its inevitable lengthy return to the Himalayan peaks of the shelving.

Before we can escape, though, the salesman pops up like a crazed, incompetent jack in the box and tells us, with a straight face, that they can put the grill together for us. "There's a lot of parts in there!" He exclaims, scratching his armpit vigorously with the pen in his hand. We sort of glance over at the clown posse, who have managed to run into something else. There is wild flag waving and shouting. These are not the people we want putting together, well, anything. Mr. MacNasty quickly assures him that he has a fine workshop and enjoys projects like this (he does, the weirdo).

We finally get home, exhausted, with nearly 2 hours of our lives gone that we'll never get back. Mr. MacNasty steps out of the truck and is promptly stung, viciously, by two yellow jackets, for no obvious reason. As I yanked the stingers out as tenderly as I could, I could tell he was no longer in the mood to grill anything, perhaps ever again, in this life.

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I'm telling y'all. I literally should never let him out of the house, bless his soul. But by god, I KNOW next weekend? He'll be right back at the Home Fucking Depot.