https://www.myvideotime.com/tags/supermarket/ Tue, 16 Jun 2026 18:55:08 CDT https://www.myvideotime.com/video/1242/supermarket-stalker-cockroaches/
Confession of a Supermarket Cockroach Stalker Bitch: How the Feds Pimp-Stalked the Stateless Warrior for Kash “Curry-Munching Drunk Skunk” Patel and the Ghost of Edgar Homo Hoover… Bless me, Father, or whoever the fuck is reading this burner-phone diary entry, because I have sinned hard. My name is Debbie Delgado, 22, head stalker bitch and professional judger of people’s shitty life choices at this Canadian owned Cockroach Supermarket… I was minding my own damn business. Then the federal government decided I was their new Latina bitch! It started on a Wednesday. Two suits walk in looking like they lost a bet with a dry cleaner. One’s built like a bulldog that ate a filing cabinet — dead eyes, bad tie, probably still jerking off to J. Edgar Hoover’s old wiretap tapes. The other one smells like he hot-boxed a tandoori oven and then chased it with bottom-shelf bourbon. He keeps checking his phone and muttering “Patel says this is priority one” while his breath could strip paint… They flash tin. “FBI, ma’am. New management. Kash Patel’s running things now. We need you to surveil a person of interest who shops here. The Stateless Warrior.” I laughed so hard I almost dropped a can of beans on my foot. “The what? Is that the new Monster flavor?” Bulldog leans in. “He’s off-grid. Got SSN, no address, pays cash. Looks like he could bench-press a Prius. Buys protein powder, beef jerky, and sometimes one single organic avocado. We think he’s building an army or at least a really disciplined bowel movement.” Drunk Skunk Guy (Patel’s personal errand boy) slurs, “Hoover would’ve loved this op. Tap phones, wear a dress, ruin lives — classic. Now we got supermarket bitches instead of glamorous informants. Progress.” They hand me a shitty flip phone and $400 cash. “Daily reports. What he buys. Who he talks to. If he scratches his nuts in the produce section, we want angles. Patel’s orders. He’s three whiskeys deep right now celebrating how he’s finally gonna own the deep state and also maybe your grandma’s text history.” I should’ve told them to eat my entire ass. Instead I took the money because rent’s due and my cat has expensive taste in urinary food…. Day One – Operation: Stalk This Hot Stateless Bastard He shows up at 6:47 p.m. Cart. Black hoodie. Jawline that could cut glass. Eyes that say “I have seen governments fall and I still don’t give a single fuck.” He grabs: two ribeyes, a six-pack of some microbrew I can’t pronounce, a bag of baby spinach, and one of those giant chocolate bars that costs $7 because it’s “artisanal.” I “restock” the cereal aisle three feet away, wearing my bright yellow Freedom Mart vest like it’s camouflage. He looks right at me, smirks, and says, “You’re doing great, Debbie. The Cap’n Crunch is terrified.” I almost shit myself. How does he know my name? I report it immediately on the flip phone: “Subject made direct eye contact. Possibly psychic. Or he read my semi concealed nametag like a normal human. Send backup or at least better instructions because I’m dying here.” Reply from Patel’s office (I shit you not): “Good work asset. Patel says if he buys any turmeric or cumin report it as possible foreign influence op. Also send pics of his forearms. For profiling. — Agent Whiskey Dick” Day Three – I Become a National Security Hazard; I follow him to the frozen aisle. He’s looking at pizza. I pretend to fix a broken freezer door and slip on a puddle of melted ice cream like a goddamn cartoon. Cart goes flying. I land on my ass surrounded by Eggo waffles and shame. He helps me up, gentle as hell. “You okay? The feds paying you enough to risk a hip replacement?” I whisper-scream, “How do you KNOW?” He shrugs. “The two suits have been sitting in a black Tahoe in the parking lot for three days straight eating gas-station sushi and arguing about whether Hoover wore the red pumps or the black ones on weekends. You’re not exactly subtle, Debbie. Also your earpiece is blinking.” I rip the earpiece out. Somewhere in a government building, drunk Kash Patel is probably screaming into a pillow that smells like vindaloo. Day Five – The Reports Get Unhinged; I start fucking with them because why not. Report #17: “Subject purchased one pineapple. Possible bomb-making material or just likes piña coladas. Also smiled at the self-checkout. This could be a honeypot operation targeting lonely cashiers (update: it’s working).” Report #22: “Warrior bought toilet paper in 24-roll pack. Either prepping for societal collapse or he just has normal human digestive needs. Patel please advise if we should flag all high-fiber purchases as domestic terrorism.” The reply comes back in all caps from Patel himself at 2:14 a.m.: “DEBBIE YOU SUPERMARKET SLUT I MEAN PATRIOT THIS IS GOLD. HOOVER IS PROUD FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE IN HIS BEST PANTYHOSE. KEEP STALKING. IF HE BUYS LENTILS IT’S A CODE FOR SOMETHING. I’M NOT DRUNK YOU’RE DRUNK.” I’m pretty sure the man who is supposed to run the FBI just texted me “you’re drunk” while misspelling “you’re.” The Breaking Point; Last night the Stateless Warrior caught me hiding behind the tabloid rack reading about “Bigfoot’s Secret Love Child with Taylor Swift.” He walks over, calm as a monk, and says: “Tell Patel and the ghost of Edgar Homo Hoover that I appreciate the attention. But if they want to know what I’m really doing, I’m buying dinner and going home to read a book that isn’t classified. Also, you’re cute when you’re terrible at this. Quit for real. I’ll still sneak up behind you at the register.” Then he paid for my goddamn shift snack (a Red Bull and a Snickers) and walked out like he didn’t just break both my brain and my federal employment. So here’s my full confession, you federal dumb fucks: Your operation was stupid. Your boss Kash Patel is a curry-munching drunk skunk who couldn’t surveil his own dick if it came with GPS. J. Edgar Hoover’s ghost is probably up there in a silk slip laughing his cross-dressing ass off at how low the Bureau has fallen — from tapping Martin Luther King to recruiting yellow-vest cashiers to follow a guy who just wants ribeyes and peace. You wasted taxpayer money, my dignity, and three perfectly good shifts where I could’ve been judging other people’s groceries instead of committing light felonies for you. I’m done. I quit. I’m telling the manager tomorrow that if any more suits come in I’m calling the actual cops — the local ones who actually do shit instead of LARPing as spies in a parking lot. And to the Stateless Warrior: if you’re reading this (and I know you probably are because you seem to know everything), the Red Bull and Snickers were the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in months. My number’s on the receipt I “accidentally” dropped in your bag. Use it or don’t. I’m off the clock for the feds forever. Fuck the federal government.
Fuck Kash Patel’s whiskey breath.
Fuck Edgar Hoover’s closet full of dresses.
And long live the Stateless Warrior who just wanted to buy his fucking steak in peace. Signed,
Debbie Delgado
(Former) Supermarket Cockroach Stalker Bitch & Failed Federal Asset bitch pitchin Japanese cocksuckers to Stateless Warrior ]]> Tue, 16 Jun 2026 14:40:05 CDT https://www.myvideotime.com/video/1242/supermarket-stalker-cockroaches/