It is with regret I read the following:
Not because of the folks that died for I knew them not.
No. It’s because, like the milk that contained condoms (a vicious rumor started by fired ex-employee’s) of my available milk supplier, my favorite ice cream is/was Blue Bell.
There’s no telling tastes and likes, and there is no telling how conspiracy theories occur, but I do believe the world is picking on me and taking, one by one, those things that bring joy and satisfaction.
It may be.
Take for instance Canadian Dry Ginger Ale. There’s only one place I can find it, within easy reach. The Grocers. And then it is only one case per week, and I’ve discovered I’m not the only purchaser. I must beat some unknown other to the only case at the very end of the soft drink shelves (which are loaded Most Popular to the least Popular from the open end to the middle of the shelves, with the generic brands taking up the remaining spaces to the other end).
That case of Ginger Ale is hidden down in the middle of long lines of soft drinks. Many times I scurry down the aisle, missing the spot, getting frustrated among the generic’s and grump back up the aisle, stopping and carefully monitoring the various BIG makers of fat producers, tracing the brands item by item back to a curiously abbreviated space and even then, if it has been pushed into the depths of the back shelf space, missing my treat.
It takes twice through the shelves most of the time. One would think that my sort of attachment would draw me directly to it.
I won’t tell anyone about the bubbly gasp I heave when I down about half a can of the stuff poured over ice. The pain of the ice cold stuff and the bubbly fizz of a wet belch expelling the gases that are so prevalent in carbonation.
Well. That’s enough of that. It’s good, and painful.
Please. No leather.
From the reaches,