Grocery Stores Do Not Charge Nearly Enough Money
I bid you all (and by "you all", I certainly do not mean the contraction "y'all", which just by dictating it to Jibsley has caused me to feel quite impoverished and feverish) a very good day, or evening, as the case may be. But whatever your current plight or level of income (above $500,000, of course, but I suppose it goes without saying that anyone making less than that would not be able to read this Inter-Net column), I am nearly certain that you do not need my biddings, because I am currently having a terrible night, thanks to what happened to me during this very day!
More regular readers will know that I have little need or use for purchasing food items for myself from a place like a General Store or a Marketorium, since I usually have my meals prepared for me, either by my fine staff of highly-abled waiters or by venturing out to an Eatery (although recent events have caused me to rethink these sorts of dangerous excursions). But when I awoke to-day by having a rare South African Colored Man sing me a song with his gentle voice, and then dance an amusing jig so as to ensure a happy sight the instant I opened my eyes, I was struck by an idea so stunning that I had to collapse, exhausted, back into my bedding for an additional five hours of rest.
Upon my waking again, Jibsley anxiously rushed in, ready to write down an apology in case he had done something to cause my exhaustion, but I impatiently brushed aside his sniveling.
"Never mind your placatery now, Jibsley!" I exclaimed. "I have had a notion to go on an Adventure!"
I proceeded to explain my idea for a Safari hunt, which I have been attempting to pursue lately because of resurfacing memories -- which I suspect were set in motion this past winter, when a particularly large snowflake crashed on top of my skull, knocking me unconscious for weeks -- of my fond days in the serengeti. Jibsley talked me out of it, though, due to my current weakened physical condition caused by my imbecile scientists, who have yet to devise a way for me to regain my youthful stature without the usage of weights or exercise. Instead, we settled upon a compromise: I would go on a hunt, but for animals which others have already killed, processed, and set upon shelves for consumption.
As we drove to a nearby Food Station, I anticipated the fearsome beasts I would have to select from the shelves, and put into what Jibsley described as some kind of large, metal-grid container, equipped with wheels to propel itself forward. There would be bits of Cattle, ready to rub their fearsome odors on me at a moment's notice! Or perhaps the mighty Pig, which is only a mere bloodline or two away from the violent Wild Boar! I was very excited, to say the least, and not even the sound of a roaring plane overhead could deter me; I merely closed my eyes and withdrew my legs to my chest, as Jibsley attempted to steer around the sound waves.
But little did I anticipate the hidden dangers of the hunting ground, friends -- more specifically, the hoards of people that scurried this way and that, rubbing their hands on the foods, and even the air near my own face!
"Who are these other hunters?" I shouted at Jibsley. "Why isn't there one Food Depository for everyone? Why --"
At that very moment, I was nearly rendered deaf by a blaring voice above me, blasting down with the force of some vengeful god, "ATTENTION SHOPPERS LANES EIGHT AND NINE ARE NOW OPEN FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE THANK YOU."
"WHAT?" I screamed, reeling into some kind of giant cardboard man who was advertising flakes of wheat and bran. "Get off of me, sir! I cannot hear properly and I am in confusion!"
I proceeded to blast his face with a rousing shot from my Elephant Gun, and his head disintegrated in a shower of cardboard flakes. I was satisfied, but I also knew that my hearing -- and my time in the store -- were both running short. I had to nab my kill, and fast!
"Jibsley, carry me to the meats, post-haste!" I told him, interrupting his task of sucking the dirty air out from in front of my face and spitting it elsewhere. "I need to bag my prize!"
But upon getting there, I noticed something horrific: there was a fee for hunting the slabs of Pigs and Chickens...and it wasn't nearly enough.
"I'm in a Poverty Den!" I moaned, the freezing air from the meat case stopping my blood in my arteries. "What cruel Daemon has allowed me to come here?"
Just then, I noticed an errant can rolling across the floor, being kicked by a small girl who likely possessed upwards of 3,000 diseases, and I lost control of all of my bodily functions, simultaneously urinating, defecating, and projectile vomiting, the force of the latter driving me backwards into a large woman who appeared to be pregnant, and was, but the pregnancy consisted of fat cells and lard, not of a child!
I will spare you additional embarrassing details of my hasty escape from the store under Jibsley's arm and the terrible, odious yell of the woman who inconvenienced me, but suffice it to say, the "Grocery Store" is a bastion of sickness, poverty, and AIDS. When I get out of my oxygen tank, where I am currently recuperating and purifying my essence, I will make sure that these places are eliminated, so that more people can come to their senses, and import fine rare goose eggs to eat, instead of packs of 12 that somehow are extracted from Common Fowl!