Tag Archives: supermarket shortages

I Meant to Do My Work Today

11 Cats Freaking Out About Cucumbers

It was my plan, yesterday, to devote this day to writing that whopping big article for Chalcedon in a single sitting, to get it done and out of the way. That plan began to unravel while it was still Tuesday.

Thanks to The Great Quarantine and Lots And Lots Of Shortages, supplying the needs of this tiny little two-person household has become almost a full-time job. There’s almost never a day I don’t have to go to the store! And when you do go, they don’t have what you came for and you have to plug in a substitute and hope it isn’t too sub-par. ‘Cause if it is, buckaroo, you’ve wasted more of your money. And it’ll mean yet another trip to yet another store. Sort of like the Soviet Union in the 1960s and 70s. Socialism is like this all the time.

So that’s what I’ve been doing all morning. It has made me tired. Jacked up my blood pressure, too. Well, maybe tomorrow I can write that article. Maybe by then my head will have stopped pounding.

Maybe I can enjoy a cigar before it starts raining. It’s, like, triple dog-daring me to go out there and relax… Go ahead, c’mon–just try it!

Maybe I’d better hurry. See you later.


Busy, Busy, Busy!

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It’s going to look like I’m not doing much today, because I don’t see how I’ll have time for normal blogging.

Now that we’re living the Virus Lifestyle–brought to you by the Chinese Communist Party: don’t forget to mention them in your imprecatory prayers–it takes about quadruple the normal amount of time just to collect a week’s supply of normal and essential goods for our little household.

I’ve also got a rush-rush assignment to do for Chalcedon, and I can’t let that slip through the cracks!

And a Newswithviews column (good luck with that, dude)…

And now, off to the supermarket–’cause I’ve gotta get back by noon to do an interview.


Increasingly Intolerable

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Ooh-ooh! Walmart has alcohol! Alcohol, I tell you! Look, it’s right here their on website! Oh, man, we’d better rush out to Walmart and get some.

Stand in line outside the store. Wear stupid hot, itchy mask that fogs your glasses. Then they let you in. They tell you that you have to go to Customer Service (and whisper “Joe sent me”?) if you want to buy alcohol. To do this, you must negotiate a labyrinth. If you just cut through the labyrinth, these bells and whistles go off. I cut through. But of course it didn’t matter: “No, sorry, no more alcohol.” And there’s another labyrinth to get out of the store.

Let’s try Whole Foods! Never mind. The line outside the store is 100 yards long.

We return home empty-handed.

It reminds me of things I read about life in Moscow, circa 1969. Brezhnev is already a turnip, but that news is concealed from the world. Work all day and then stand in line waiting to buy something for your supper. You don’t know what will be available.

Socialism is like this all the time.

How long can they keep us bottled up like this before the murder rate goes up?


It’s Getting Nasty Out There

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We had another frustrating trip to the supermarket today. Now they’ve got these arrows taped to the floor, and you’re supposed to follow them. If you actually did that, it would take three or four times as long to buy your groceries, thanks to the need for constantly having to change your plans because of shortages.

So I was going the “wrong” way down the aisle, because what I wanted to buy was out of supply and I had to back up and look for a substitute, when some woman came along and sneered, “Hey, what about the arrows–old man?” This was so fantastically rude that I lost my temper and replied in Anglo-Saxon. She answered in kind.

I guess my grey hairs were showing, and somehow that gave her an entitlement to insult me. “Old.” As in stupid. As in worthy of disrespect. What do you want to bet, though, she’s going to vote for Joe Biden, who’s older than me and almost completely potty?

Oh, let’s all be good little soviets and follow the arrows on the floor!

No thanks. Bad enough we have to wear the masks and can’t buy rubbing alcohol. We don’t have to encourage tinpot tyrants.


Back to Work

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I’m still kind of tired, but at least I managed to crank out my Newswithviews column today–along with another fruitless quest for rubbing alcohol, drop off the laundry, and stock up on Marshmallow Peeps as long as I was at the store. Extra trip to the supermarket, too. I think I know why I feel tired.

I’m beginning to wonder why it’s taking so long to get His Mercy Endureth Forever printed. (Note to Watchman: I haven’t forgotten that I owe you a copy.) I hope the printer’s not locked down.

My wife and some of my friends are getting worried that maybe President Trump won’t get re-elected, heaven forbid. Good: worry away. Be afraid of what’ll happen if the voters go mad and hand the country over to Biden, Pelosi, and Schumer. If that doesn’t scare you–well, it should. But let the worry, let the fear, motivate us. Do your bit to save America from those who would destroy it by turning into God knows what. If each of us can win over just one more vote for Trump, that’s something. I’m worried enough to work hard, even when it tires me.

One more post. Let’s see if I can turn out one more post today.


Now They Won’t Take Cash???

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Before I take the afternoon off and smoke a cigar and watch Crab Monsters or something, I’ve just got to tell you about my latest grocery-shopping safari.

I don’t know if you can see it in the illustration, but right under the Federal Reserve seal is the unambiguous statement, “This note is legal tender for all debts public and private.”

Except in Whole Foods!

Hey, everybody–join me in playing “I woke up in Venezuela this morning!” After the cashier rang me up, she suddenly remembered she’s not allowed anymore to take any of that legal tender. Credit only! So there was a big fap-a-thon over that. “It’s for your own protection,” explained the manager.

Ah, fooey! What is this–back to junior high school? Russia in the 1970s? I know they’re a chi-chi oh-so-precious bunch in Whole Foods, but they should go soak their heads.

“Don’t you see? We have it posted?”

“Oh? And that makes it right? That makes my legal tender not legal anymore? You can just decide that, can you?” But I might as well have been talking to a fire hydrant.

Once this virus schiff is over, there are a lot of little tin gods who need to be taken out to the woodshed.


Now It’s Really Getting to Me

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I do not want current events worming their way into my dreams. It is not cool, it is not entertaining, it is not cute, it is not funny, to be treated like some kind of livestock because the Chicoms dropped a brand-new fatal disease onto the world.

The other night I fell asleep after supper and dreamed–oh, the horror!–that I went into a store and found a few bottles of alcohol on the shelf. Can you believe I wasted good dreaming time on that? I woke up with the willies.

This is not the Soviet Union, circa 1975. We do not expect supermarket shortages. We Americans worked hard for our prosperity, and to have it torpedoed by a bunch of communist no-hopers on the other side of the world is just too much. The time has come to do away with communism. It has no business in this century.

I should not have to dream about trying to buy alcohol.


Nooze Media: Caught Again!

First Aid Kit Rubbing Alcohol, Isopropyl Alcohol, 16 oz Bottle ...

A Washington Post reporter recently “reported” that isopropyl rubbing alcohol costs $2,375 on amazon.com (https://www.bizpacreview.com/2020/04/24/nice-try-journo-wapo-reporter-deletes-deceptive-tweet-that-tried-to-pin-price-spike-on-trump-912471)–which, of course, is Donald Trump’s fault, boo, hiss.

She forgot to mention that that’s the price of a 55-gallon drum of alcohol. She deleted her alarmist tweet after somebody pointed that out.

We buy it by the pint, when we can get it. At our local newsstand, we pay $2 and change. That’s only a little higher than the price we pay at the supermarket, when they have it. They had some yesterday, but I missed it (*sigh*).

At a time like this, the public has a critical need for accurate information–and that’s precisely what our nooze media refuse to give us. This renders them useless as a source of information.

And 40% of the people still trust these bozos not to lie?

 


Late, Late, Late!

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Ghshaaash! That’s Wallekki for something I can’t print here.

I am so far behind–it takes two or three times as long as it should, to shop for the weekend’s groceries. And I still can’t buy any rubbing alcohol. Can’t be had for any price.

I want my cigar.

It’s raining.

You know what I hate about all this social distancing-stand in line-wear the stupid mask stuff? It’s like being back in school! It’s like they took my adulthood away. That really bugs me. It took me 70 years to get here, and some political pipsqueak wants to wipe it out?

Let’s go stand in the rain.

 


More Odds and Ends

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Our futile quest for rubbing alcohol today saw us come home empty-handed. I’m beginning to think we’ll never again be able to buy alcohol in the supermarket, or from any of the pharmacies. Are people bathing in it? King Ibn Saud once filled his swimming pool with Chanel No. 5. Maybe people are filling their swimming pools with alcohol.

On the plus side–have you noticed people are friendlier? More smiles, more waves, more “hi, hello, how are you?” Is that because they’re not stressing out with the commute to work? I’ve definitely noticed this, and I like it!

How come the comments slow down when I announce a comment contest?

Within 48 hours of us having to shell out almost $500 for my car’s repairs, Patty’s car is now in the garage, too. Engine misfiring. We still haven’t gotten our stimulus money. The only stimulus going on around here is us stimulating the auto repair industry.

Big plus–our ancient dogwood has come into bloom. It’s over 40 years old, and may be as old as 50. The squirrels persecute it, but the gallant little tree comes through for us with blossoms every spring. God is nigh.

Which is, of course, the best news of all: our Heavenly Father is never more than a prayer away. And sometimes even closer than that, if we but knew it.

And now it looks like rain, so let’s have a cigar.


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