Hot Club Action At Ontario Mills

I came across this and it made me laugh so I’m putting it up here out of laziness.  I used to have a spam list of friends and family who I’d send mass emails to, but that sort of fell by the wayside as I started focusing more attention on this site.  This is from the days of the email list and was apparently written on Thursday, October 3, 2002, which I know because I’m way too anal.  Anyway, hopefully it’ll be as entertaining for you as it is for me:

I went to Sam’s Club last night. I hate Sam’s Club, even though I have a membership. Every time I go there, I’m confronted with the most freakish cross section of humanity imaginable, many of them unable to get over how tall I am. It’s always like, “JESUS CHRIST, YOU’RE HUGE!!!”

“Yes, yes, I’m huge. And someday, when you leave Fontana, you’ll see other tall people too.”

And then there are the folks who think I work there. I’ve never even owned a blue vest, let alone worn one, but apparently I radiate the Sam’s Club Employee vibe. I don’t bother explaining things to these people anymore, I just answer all their questions with, “Figure it out for yourself.” There are others. I’m always suspicious of anyone buying THAT much olive oil. So anyway, I hate this place but when your grandfather asks you to go and pick up a couple thousand (it would have been almost a million if I’d gone to Rite Aid) dollars of prescription drugs, you say yes. It always cracks me up that the cigarettes are located right next to the pharmacy. As I’m waiting for my metric ton of painkillers, I look over and there’s this guy buying eight or nine cartons of Marlboro Reds. More smokes than any one person should be buying and yet not enough for me to think it’s for a business. And it’s only the one brand. How fucking fast can one person smoke? I mean really, wouldn’t most of those get stale before you could get around to smoking them? At three packs a day, you’re smoking a couple cartons a week, and this motherfucker is buying eight. Eight! So I beat him to death with a ten gallon can of Mushroom Parts, figuring it’d be cheaper for him.

It goes on a bit more, but it’s just talk of weird dreams I’d been having and other similarly fascinating things.  95% of that story is true, by the way (I never beat anyone to death…at Sam’s Club), and I actually remember standing in line for the prescription drugs wondering what the fuck that guy needed all those cigarettes for.

I was doing this favor for my grandfather because he was too busy being at my grandmother’s side in the hospital.  We were all sure that she was going to leave us at any moment.  She was a tough old bird, however, and she wound up sticking around another five and a half years.  She died on June 3 of last year and I just now realized that it’s been over a year since her death.  It just doesn’t seem like that much time has passed.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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