have an uninvited guest and this morning I went to the supermarket to get some ointment that will make it go away. I’ll spare you the details about my nasty little intruder, but suffice it to say that it’s large and it’s purple and it’s making it hard for me to sit down.

There are certain items one cannot buy at a supermarket without feeling like an ass (ooh, another reference to my intruder). Those items include condoms, non-alcoholic beer, adult diapers, anti-hemorrhoid creams, KY jelly, gallon-sized bottles of vodka, stool softeners, Efferdent, douche bags and Beano.

I bought one of those items today – not saying which one – and the experience was a little like being caught with a Hustler magazine and a family-sized bottle of lotion. I could not escape the conspicuously disapproving gaze of the check-out whore, the red-faced attempt by the bag boy to contain his laughter and the prying eyes of the fat woman behind me (another clue to my ailment) in line. Neither of these people said a word to me, but I felt compelled to enter a plea nonetheless.

“It’s for my kid,” I said, snickering a bit. “He got some Halloween candy stuck up there and it left a nasty wound.”

I don’t know if they bought it.

I prayed that this torture would end quickly so I could get home and anoint myself. No such luck. The cashier ran my little yellow box of relief over the scanner, but it didn’t ding. She scanned it again. Still no ding.

I started to pray. “Please, God. I know I’m voting for John Kerry, but please make the scanner ding. Please don’t make her call for a price check. I promise not to step on anymore snails ‘accidentally on purpose’ just to hear their shells crunch if you grant me this one wish.”

God was apparently at a Bush rally because Marlene, the cashier from hell, grabbed her intercom phone and told everyone in Ralph’s that she needed a price check on baboon ass cream for the customer at aisle nine who walks funny and keeps scratching his bum.

A moment later, the intercom speaker shouted back, “The anal invader cream is four thirty-nine, Marlene.”

Marlene punched in the total and then had the nerve to ask me if I had my Ralph’s Club Card on me.

“No, Marlene, you hag,” I thought to myself. “I don’t have my Club Card. Will you please just let me pay so I can get out of here and slash my wrists?”

Marlene said nothing. She took my money, gave me my change and threw me a smile that seemed to say, “I hope your sphincter feels better soon. Please come again.”