You’re the cream cheese to my bagel.
Some schlub
I don’t fool with social media all that much. Too hostile. Especially Twitter/X.
Based on the deterioration of my general sense of well-being, I believe social media hostility is seeping into everyday life.
It has gotten so bad, I’m almost afraid to go to the grocery store.
So, perhaps it’s time for Elon Musk to buy up all the grocery chains in the United States and restore civility in American society the same way he restored freedom of speech to Twitter. He could call his stores X Marts or something equally sterile.
Since Musk has about 14 kids and half as many wives, the exciting possibility exists that he may make wives (or at least baby mamas) available at X Marts.
Truth be told, I could probably use a couple of wives myself, but I’d study the return policy closely beforehand. Last time I acquired a wife, I lost the receipt and couldn’t get my money back.
Let’s run a simulation of shopping at X Mart and see how it goes.
Grab a buggy and head for the produce section like you do at every other store.
Excellent! Blackberries are on sale, so you grab several packages and put them on that shelf in the buggy where mewling young’uns usually go.
But then problems arise. A middle-aged woman wearing a Diane von Furstenberg dress is looking at the blackberries in your buggy and shaking her head.
“You really should buy organic blackberries,” she says.
“Thanks, but they cost twice as much,” you reply.
“Synthetic pesticides are sprayed on those berries?” she says.
Oh, but to have a can of pesticide right now, you almost say, but you take the high road and tell her she might be right.
Then she looks at you with scorn and says, “Don’t you drive that ugly white truck that sounds like it’s falling apart?”
Such a remark about your truck makes you wonder if it might be time to display some toxic masculinity, but once again, you take the high road.
“Slight problem with the tailpipe,” you say. “Been meaning to fix it.”
“That piece of junk shouldn’t be allowed on the road,” she says.
She’s gone too far. Tell her you attended her graduation from the Karen Academy. But you don’t say it because she’s pretty and you’re a coward.
Then you make your way to the seafood department.
You’re looking at the farm-raised salmon when an elderly man wearing a white polo shirt taps you on the shoulder.
“The wild-caught salmon is half off,” he says. “Plus, it’s healthier.”
The corpses of the beheaded wild-caught salmon don’t look any healthier than the corpses of the beheaded farm-raised, so you head for the cheese aisle.
Once there, you grab some Kraft American cheese, the kind that’s individually wrapped, the kind used to make classic grilled cheese sandwiches in defiance of your cardiologist. You put the cheese in the buggy next to the blackberries.
Suddenly, you realize Diane von Furstenberg has followed you to the cheese.
You can’t help yourself at this point.
“If you want my phone number, dear, just ask for it,” you say, the words dripping with sarcasm.
“I knew you were a Trump supporter,” she says. “This proves it beyond doubt.”
The statement is so bizarre, you are temporarily rendered catatonic.
“You can’t be buying that cheese because it tastes good,” she says. “You’re just buying it because it’s called American. And it’s not even real cheese. The FDA calls it a pasteurized processed cheese product.”
You briefly wonder if Trump is responsible for this injustice. Why has he allowed our cheese to fall out of favor? Certainly, we can do better.
“You really should buy Swiss cheese, it’s much healthier,” Diane says.
“Blight the confounded Swiss,” you mutter.
All you wanted was a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner, and now you’re about to be called a fascist.
And then, quite suddenly, you are smitten with the woman. It happens so fast, you get a bit dizzy.
So, you grab the Swiss cheese, lift Diane into the buggy, and head for the cashiers.
You find one who isn’t busy, and you put Diane on the conveyor belt.
You point at her and say to the cashier, “The wild-caught variety is on sale, right?”
Selah.