Ah, yes, the supermarket. An icon of Western bounty, a finely tuned and impeccably choreographed meeting of marketing, logistics, inventory control, customer service, and idiots.
Each full cart, each teeming basket, is a reflection of the tastes, the needs, and the indulgences of the individual presenting it to the checkout clerk. I submit that a grocery bill could tell you more about a person than a conversation. I am also a man who hates conversation, so please humor me when I say that seven inches of roll tape is a more meaningful relationship-building tool than suffering through three to five minutes of completely numbing and banal dialogue with a practiced stooge.
Given this perceived (manufactured?) intimacy regarding one's food purchases, of course my inclination is to pervert it; to make something common into something deviant. I amuse myself with thoughts of product combinations that would raise an eyebrow, create a stifled laugh, or cause concern. For example:
A cucumber, an eggplant, a butternut squash, and a jar of Vaseline.
Twenty jars of baby food, a box of 30-gallon trash bags, a pair of rubber gloves, and a paring knife.
A box of Trojan Magnum XL condoms, kitty litter, and a pack of sponges.
Six cans of chili, a jalapeno, a single roll of toilet paper, and a romance novel.
A five-pound pork loin and a box of Shabbos candles.
A frozen turkey and some sparklers.
The possibilities are endless, my friends. I implore you to get out there, make some strange purchases, and revel in the wayward glances.
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