Dear Produce Pimp:

Few men know this, but many of lifes most epic showdowns take place on weekdays, between the hours of nine am and noon, when all the basic bitches of housewife life go grocery shopping. We like to pretend that the great shit goes down in more interesting places, like our yoga studios or at Neimans.  But let’s face it, the grocery store is both battleground and sanctuary for twats like me who like to feel accomplished when we overcomplicate pedestrian life tasks by spending large amounts of time perseverating over the fact that turkey bacon appears to be neither turkey, nor bacon. Alliances are formed, (Team Lululemon v. Team Vince) Strategies outlined. (Team Paleo v. Team Vegan) Dreams; shattered. (Team Lululemon catches double agent buying steaks/ On Team Paleo) We call the store manager in so we can set our iphone alerts to the day that Envy apples will be back in season, and we all feel just fine about eating a few grapes out of the bag for sustinence or occasionally lying about the fact that we have organic potatoes when we punched in the code for those cheap ass, thick skinned regular potatoes. 

In short, this is our turf. I mean, yes. TECHNICALLY it’s Whole Foods. But we all know it’s really Hole Foods. Girl territory. Vagina major. 

So imagine my disgust when my boyfriend alerted me to the fact that you jammed your grubby fingers into a box of strawberries, removed some, and added them to the box you are buying, then did the same thing with a box of raspberries, in effect SHORTING whoever buys the infected boxes you left behind. 

Produce Pimp, this is not ok. We basic bitches might hate and secretly recommend bad plastic surgeons to each other. That’s to be expected. But we NEVER short a bitch on berries. ESPECIALLY organic berries. That shit will get your Range Rover tires slashed in the parking lot. Besides, it’s one thing for a regular customer to take the liberty of eating a few two dollar apiece pecans from the bag before she weighs it. There is a tacit contract between grocery stores and dumb bitches who have nothing better to do after morning drop off than push carts around Central Market while shit-texting their best friends at Tom Thumb about how some OTHER dumb bitch is buying imitation crab for the party they are all going to that weekend, that a few freebies are part of the deal. Kind of like how our husbands get the occasional charity lunch-reach-around at the strip club after the buffet runs out of ribs and the chicks on the early shift have to decide whether to toss a guy off before they go home, or just swallow the bottle of pills they have in their ringworm infested lockers. It’s another for an amateur weekend warrior like yourself to start fucking with the natural order of things. These privileges have to be earned. You don’t see us hanging out on your turf on a Saturday morning, stealing free ham and cheese sandwiches while some desperate twenty year old grinds us in hopes of upgrading so she can stop stripping at nine am and instead start pretending to be asleep every morning when you wake her up with your engorged dick poking her asscrack while touching her with your stank hands from your nightly intermittent ball and butthole scratch fest before she drops the kids off and starts trolling the aisles of Kroger for two-for-one cans of cream of celery soup. 

Get out. 


PS. Let’s just hope you didn’t drop your own dingleberries in the mix. 

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