Today I went to the local grocer for fresh produce in order to make a stew of the recently caught rabbit a patron of my art awarded to me. One of my boarders, Boner as he is called, graciously transported me to the store in his peculiar motor carriage which smelled strongly of an odor that reminded me of the hemp rope doll I had in my childhood. Oh, those simpler times do appeal to me more often as I approach the twilight century of my life.
The grocer we arrived at was a monstrosity of concrete and glass, with dozens of townfolk milling about. I entered and approached the nearest individual that was costumed in the clothing of this metropolis of sustenance and told him to fetch me a bundle of carrots, potatoes and milk fresh from teet of the cow. He looked at me blankly and said "Milk is in the back of aisle 3". What was this madness!? I am to fetch my own groceries? Are you not in business to supply me, as the costumer, with your fresh product so that I may be on my way and cook my stew? How am I to know where to find anything in this great space with endless rows of inventory? This is a disgrace! The tyranny of this country knows no bounds! I demand freedom from my grocer oppressors and satisfaction from those employed to serve me! I shall strike down all that defy the great tradition of what this country once was!
I reached for my pistol to teach this whelp a lesson in manors, but while I was lost in my rage, he slipped away. I began to scour the building for this incontinent youngster, until my compatriot, Boner, approached with all of the staples I needed to construct my stew. A good man, that Boner is. We made our way back to the homestead and feasted all night on our delicious stew. I shall not forget my grudge with that grocer boy, but tonight I shall sleep with a full stomach and just dream of my revenge.