Culture Fail

orangejuiceIt was a cold and stormy Wednesday, or Tuesday, maybe. Like many 30-somethings across this great land, I was braving the elements to keep my wife company while she did all of our laundry at the laundromat, complaining the whole time. You see, I was sick. I’ll spare you my biological statistics, but rest assured, it was bad. Things were leaking out of my orifices that were alien to me. My throat felt as if I had gargled sandpaper, my forehead was burning up, and I think I may have stubbed a toe. I was in search of relief, and it wasn’t going to come from a pizza or a sixer of Guiness (actually, I take that back).

What I needed was some damned orange juice, and I needed it right then. Because America.

So I moseyed on over to the new Natural Grocers thinking, hey, they’ve got to have orange juice, right? Heading in there was this big pile of Vitamin D with a sign advertising it as 365 days of summer in one little bottle. With no heat, bugs, or actual sun? I must be in the promised land. Unfortunately I didn’t have $17 to spare, so I moved on.

After getting backed up a bit at the rack of “Colon Clenz,” I stopped at their little library when I suddenly found the urge to curse under my breath for a bit. Lots of great books by backwoods and mail-order PhDs offering to help you cure Alzheimer’s or get off of the prescription meds (you actually do probably need) by gargling toadstool or some other garbage cleaved from the bog of eternal stench. It was like a pseudo-science bonanza that stopped just short of pitching the concept that 9/11 was actually an inside job by Jewish komodo dragons or whatever is popular with the crazies these days. I instantly understood why one-third of this store was composed of bottles of bone meal and stuff that said “ultra complex” in italics on it. It was time to get the hell out of there. To the juice aisle!

Thirty seconds later, there I was. And there it… wasn’t. Six bucks for a bottle of orange juice?! For that kind of money it better contain virgin’s blood, or at least a coupon for a cat exterminator. And there was really just one option, too. There was a 12-ounce version of the same brand for less, but I had to put my foot down.

I can admit, they did have an even more expensive Odwalla brand orange juice, but even if I was above the poverty line, I can’t touch the stuff. Not after watching some hipsters in Portland eat a bunch of grungy, sticky Odwalla bars out of the trash. Seriously, there was green claggy-glug all over them. Classical conditioning… I’m susceptible.

Anyway, I finally left and eventually got something really cheap from Winco, which I enjoyed over the next week. And then I got more from my grandmother, which was probably from Wal-Mart… so there, I’m not perfect. The end.

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2 thoughts on “Culture Fail

  1. Culture Fail: I NEED A HUG

    Posted: March 27th, 2014 ˑ Filled under: Editorial ˑ

    It was a cold and stormy Wednesday, or Tuesday, maybe. Like many 30-somethings across this great land, I was braving the elements to keep my wife company while she did all of our laundry at the laundromat, complaining the whole time. You see, I was sick. I’ll spare you my biological statistics, but rest assured, it was bad. Things were leaking out of my orifices that were alien to me. My throat felt as if I had gargled sandpaper, my forehead was burning up, and I think I may have stubbed a toe. I was in search of relief, and it wasn’t going to come from a pizza or a sixer of Guiness (actually, I take that back).

    What I needed was some damned windshield wiper fluid, and I needed it right then. Because America.

    So I moseyed on over to the new Natty Auto Parts store thinking, hey, they’ve got to have windshield wiper fluid, right? Heading in there was this big pile of Radiator Fluid with a sign advertising it as 365 days of summer in one little bottle. With no heat, bugs, or actual sun? I must be in the promised land. Unfortunately I didn’t have $17 to spare, so I moved on.

    After getting backed up a bit at the rack of “STOP LEAK” I stopped at their little library when I suddenly found the urge to curse under my breath for a bit. Lots of great books by backwoods and mail-order PhDs offering to help you cure Brake Squeal or get off of the Warranty Plan (you actually do probably need) by spraying toadstool or some other garbage cleaved from the bog of eternal stench. It was like a pseudo-science bonanza that stopped just short of pitching the concept that 9/11 was actually an inside job by Jewish komodo dragons or whatever is popular with the crazies these days. I instantly understood why one-third of this store was composed of bottles of bone meal and stuff that said “ultra complex” in italics on it. It was time to get the hell out of there. To the Wiper aisle!

    Thirty seconds later, there I was. And there it… wasn’t. Six bucks for a bottle of windshield wiper fluid?! For that kind of money it better contain virgin’s blood, or at least a coupon for a cat exterminator. And there was really just one option, too. There was a 12-ounce version of the same brand for less, but I had to put my foot down.

    I can admit, they did have an even more expensive Mopar brand windshield wiper fluid, but even if I was above the poverty line, I can’t touch the stuff. Not after watching some hipsters in Portland install a bunch of grungy, sticky break pads pulled out of the trash. Seriously, there was green claggy-glug all over them. Classical conditioning… I’m susceptible.

    Anyway, I finally left and eventually got something really cheap from Winco, which I enjoyed over the next week. And then I got more from my grandmother, which was probably from Wal-Mart… so there, I’m not perfect. The end.

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