Are you supposed to smell the meat? I can never remember. I mean, I feel pretty stupid smelling this. It's wrapped in plastic, so it's not like I'm gonna smell anything anyway. But still, there's this nagging voice in my head that's telling me I'm supposed to smell the meat.

All the good liquor is locked behind a cabinet. That sucks. If you want to be a serious drunk, you have to make your intentions known to the seventeen year-old stock boy with the key. And he's so serious when he unlocks it. Like it's his dad's stash and he doesn't want to get caught.

You know, if you just look at the picture on the can, Vienna sausages don't look half-bad.

That guy is singing along to the Muzak. How sad. Oh wait, it's a Billy Joel tune. OK, I understand that.

Why do I feel so much pressure picking out lemons? They're lemons, for God's sake! They all seem exactly the same to me, yet I see people sorting through the entire pile, searching for the right one. But they're just lemons. I'm gonna cut a slice and drop it in my gin. Why all this pressure?

Why are all these religious candles next to the salsa? Why aren't they next to the regular candles?

Where's the damn soap? Shouldn't it be here with the rest of the bathroom supplies? Toothpaste, floss, lotions, no soap. What is this, the Dewey decimal system?

There's no one else waiting for the bakery, yet the sign says "Take A Number." Do I take a number? It says "Now Serving 37," but they're not serving anyone. They're just standing there. I have number 56. I'm confused.

Why do I feel so good about myself when I return the shopping cart to the pack? It's not that much work, yet I feel like I've done my good deed for the day. Like I can go ahead and cut off old ladies in the crosswalk, 'cause I've got good shopping cart karma.