Do you remember when Rand and I went to an island resort in the Great Barrier Reef, and it was wonderful and all, but the food was so expensive that I nearly passed out while simultaneously evacuating my bowels?
But then my body kicked in and said: WE CANNOT AFFORD TO LEAVE ANY NUTRIENTS UNDIGESTED. Not only did my bowels not evacuate, but I was constipated for a week while my tightwad intestines worked overtime to squeeze every last bit of value from our overpriced meals. When I finally went to the bathroom (which happened sometime after we got to Sydney), I’d so efficiently processed my food, that I released only a few little odorless pellets of pooh into the toilet. Like a rabbit. Or Gwyneth Paltrow.
I thought that the prices in Hayman Island were bad, but then I visited some friends in Bowen Island. It’s funny – I find Canada to be an overly polite, calm, and orderly country. The sort of place where everyone stands in line and says please and thank you. It’s like a ridiculously well-behaved kindergarten class.
Now imagine said well-behaved kindergarteners stoned, and you have Bowen Island.
But the prices we saw while there? They were insane. I can’t understand why it hasn’t driven even its laid-back, courteous, and perpetually-high residents into a psychotic rage. Because the grocery store is a place of madness.
THIS IS A TEN DOLLAR GALLON OF MILK:
I checked, and it’s not like it comes from special cows or anything. The animals weren’t gently massaged with lavender oil before they were milked.
I know, I know – it costs a lot to transport things over to an island, right? But ferry tickets for PEOPLE aren’t that pricey, so I can’t understand why they would be for milk. Unless some artisan hand-whittled individual boats for these jugs to travel in, this is inexplicable.
But this might have been the worst thing, ever:
$8.20 for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s? $11 for the chalky, brittle excuse for ice cream that is Breyer’s? GROCERS, THIS IS INHUMAN. This is not how you treat your fellow man.
Upon seeing the price-gouging that occurred for frozen confections, I began to grow weak. I fell to my knees, dizzy. Rand rushed to my side, cradled my head in my hands, and asked me repeatedly if I was alright.
“Yes,” I rasped, my voice barely above a whisper. “My … my blood sugar’s just low. Buy me an 18-dollar granola bar, and I’ll be fine.”
And he would have, too, if our card hadn’t been declined for lack of funds.