My Arduous Valentine
Or: The Quest to Find a Card That Says "I Love You, But Not Too Much, And Also I'm Sorry About Tuesday"
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
Valentine's Day is a trap.
Not a romantic one.
A logistical one.
A test designed to expose every weakness in your character.
Every failure in planning.
Every gap in your emotional vocabulary.
It is February 13th.
7:47 PM.
And I am standing in a Walgreens.
In the Valentine's Day card aisle.
The picked-over Valentine's Day card aisle.
Searching for the impossible:
A card that expresses affection without being saccharine.
Humor without being dismissive.
Sincerity without being performative.
And also—crucially—
A card that acknowledges that Tuesday happened.
Tuesday.
When I may have said something.
Something I didn't mean.
Something that needs addressing.
But not so directly that it ruins Valentine's Day.
This card must thread a needle.
Navigate a minefield.
Perform emotional alchemy.
And I have—
I check my phone—
Thirteen minutes before this Walgreens closes.
THE SITUATION
Let me explain Tuesday.
We were cooking dinner.
Ash—my wife, my love, the person I'm now desperately trying to buy a card for—
was telling me about her day.
A difficult patient.
A coworker who said something passive-aggressive.
The usual trials of hospital nursing.
And I—
exhausted from my own day—
said:
"At least you have good benefits."
"At least you have good benefits."
I heard it come out of my mouth.
Watched it land.
Watched her face do that thing.
The thing where she's deciding whether to engage or just... let it go.
She let it go.
Which is worse.
So much worse.
Because now it's there.
Hovering.
Unaddressed.
Waiting.
And Valentine's Day is tomorrow.
And I need—
need—
a card that somehow says:
"I love you deeply and also I'm an idiot sometimes and also please don't hold Tuesday against me forever."
But in card form.
With a nice design.
Under $7.
THE AISLE
The Valentine's section is devastated.
A retail crime scene.
Like a tornado touched down specifically here.
Cards scattered.
Envelopes missing.
Some cards bent.
Some cards clearly opened and read and rejected and shoved back wrong.
This is what happens when you wait until February 13th at 7:47 PM.
This is what you deserve.
The remaining cards fall into several categories:
Category 1: Too Much
"You are my EVERYTHING. My WORLD. My REASON FOR BREATHING."
No.
Too intense.
We've been married for two years.
We're comfortable.
We're in love.
But we're not "reason for breathing."
We're "reason for buying the good coffee."
Category 2: Too Funny
"Roses are red, violets are blue, I tolerate you more than most people, and that's pretty cool."
Cute.
But not after Tuesday.
After Tuesday, "tolerate" reads as passive-aggressive.
I need earnest.
Earnest.
Category 3: Too Generic
"Happy Valentine's Day to Someone Special."
Who? Who is someone special?
This could be for anyone.
My wife.
My dentist.
The person who makes my sandwich at Subway.
TOO VAGUE.
Category 4: Too Specific (Wrong Specific)
"To My Sexy Valentine" with a cartoon of a muscular man and a woman in lingerie.
We are not cartoon people.
We are real people.
With real bodies.
And real exhaustion.
This card is for a different marriage.
Category 5: The Ones Clearly Left Behind For a Reason
"You're like a fart—silent but deadly."
No.
Just... no.
THE PANIC
I'm running out of time.
Running out of options.
I pull out my phone.
Text Ash:
"Hey, you still awake?"
Typing...
"Yeah, why?"
I stare at the message.
Consider telling her:
I'm at Walgreens trying to find you a card and they're all terrible and I'm sorry about Tuesday and I love you and—
But I don't.
Because that would ruin the surprise.
The gesture.
The performance of Valentine's Day.
Instead I write:
"Just wanted to say I love you."
Typing...
"Love you too. Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just thinking about you."
Typing...
"Okay weirdo. See you soon."
I pocket my phone.
Look back at the cards.
Eight minutes until closing.
THE WORKER
A Walgreens employee approaches.
Young guy.
Maybe twenty-three.
Name tag: KYLE
"Sir, we're closing soon."
"I know. I'm looking for a Valentine's card."
He glances at the decimated aisle.
"Yeah, uh... good luck with that."
"Do you have any in the back?"
"In the back?"
"Yeah, like, stock. More cards."
He looks at me with the patience of someone who's had this conversation seventeen times today.
"If it's not out here, we don't have it."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Because last year—"
"Sir. We don't keep extra Valentine's cards in the back. What you see is what we have."
I nod.
Defeated.
Kyle starts to walk away, then pauses.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why didn't you buy a card earlier? Like... last week?"
Valid question.
Devastating question.
"I thought I had one," I lie.
I didn't think I had one.
I just... didn't think about it.
Until today.
When I remembered that tomorrow is Valentine's Day.
And Tuesday happened.
And I'm a fool.
Kyle nods slowly.
"Yeah. You're not the first guy to come in here tonight with that look."
"What look?"
"The 'I'm in trouble' look."
He's right.
He's so right.
"Good luck, man," Kyle says.
And leaves me.
Alone.
In the Valentine's wasteland.
Six minutes until closing.
THE COMPROMISE
I start grabbing cards.
Any card that's not actively offensive.
I'll buy several.
Read them all at home.
Choose the best one.
Return the others tomorrow.
Wait.
No.
I can't return them.
I'm reformed.
I don't return things anymore.
Damn it.
Damn my newfound ethics.
I put the extra cards back.
Stand there.
Staring.
And then—
Then—
I see it.
One card.
Partially hidden behind a "Congratulations on Your Divorce" card.
(Who puts that in the Valentine's section?)
I pull it out.
The front has a simple design.
Watercolor hearts.
Muted colors.
Not too cutesy.
Not too serious.
I open it.
The pre-printed message inside reads:
"I don't always get it right. But I'm always trying. Happy Valentine's Day."
I read it again.
"I don't always get it right. But I'm always trying."
It's perfect.
It's perfect.
It addresses Tuesday without mentioning Tuesday.
It's sincere without being overwrought.
It's an apology wrapped in a declaration of love.
It's—
I check the price sticker—
$6.99.
I'm buying it.
I'm buying this card.
THE CHECKOUT
I approach the register.
Kyle is there.
"Found one?"
"Found one."
He scans it.
Looks at the message.
Nods approvingly.
"That's a good one."
"You think?"
"Yeah. Covers a lot of bases. Apologizes without being too specific. She'll appreciate it."
"You sure?"
"Dude, I've seen like forty guys tonight. Trust me. This is a solid choice."
"What if she thinks it's generic?"
"It's not about the card, man. It's about the fact that you got one. You showed up. You tried."
He bags it.
Hands it to me.
"$7.52 with tax."
I pay.
"Good luck," Kyle says.
"Thanks. And hey—sorry for asking about stock in the back."
"It's cool. Everyone asks."
THE ADDITION
I sit in my car.
In the Walgreens parking lot.
Card in hand.
And I realize:
The card is good.
But it's not enough.
Not after Tuesday.
I need something else.
Something to show I thought about this.
Planned.
Tried.
I look around.
The stores nearby are closed.
Except—
The gas station.
Still open.
I drive over.
Walk inside.
Scan the options.
Flowers: Wilted carnations in plastic sleeves. No.
Candy: Those heart-shaped boxes that are 90% air. No.
Stuffed animals: A bear holding a heart that says "I Wuv You." Absolutely not.
And then—
In the back—
The refrigerated section—
Cherry Coke Zero.
Her favorite.
The one she can never find.
The one she always mentions when we pass it.
"Oh, they have Cherry Coke Zero! Should I get one?"
And I always say, "If you want."
And she says, "No, I'm good."
But she's not good.
She wants one.
She always wants one.
She just doesn't buy it.
I grab a six-pack.
And a single rose.
One of those single roses in a plastic tube.
It's not fancy.
But it's something.
It's more than just the card.
THE RETURN HOME
I get home.
9:03 PM.
Ash is on the couch.
Watching something on her laptop.
"Hey," she says.
"Hey."
She looks at the bag in my hand.
"What'd you get?"
"Uh... supplies. For tomorrow."
"For what tomorrow?"
"Valentine's Day."
She smiles.
That smile.
The one that says: Oh, you remembered.
"You didn't have to get anything," she says.
"I wanted to."
She closes her laptop.
Looks at me.
"You know you don't have to do Valentine's Day, right? It's... it's a made-up holiday."
"I know."
"And I'm not expecting anything—"
"I know. But I want to. Because—"
I pause.
Consider whether to mention Tuesday.
Decide against it.
"—because I love you."
She stands.
Walks over.
Hugs me.
"I love you too."
We stand there.
In the kitchen.
Holding each other.
And I think:
The card is in the bag.
The Cherry Coke Zero is in the bag.
The slightly sad gas station rose is in the bag.
Tomorrow, I'll give them to her.
And maybe—
maybe—
she'll know what I'm trying to say.
VALENTINE'S DAY MORNING
I wake up early.
Set the card on the counter.
Next to the Cherry Coke Zero.
Next to the rose, which I've put in a glass because we don't own a vase.
It looks...
Fine.
Not Instagram-worthy.
Not impressive.
But fine.
Sincere.
Ash wakes up.
Comes into the kitchen.
Sees the setup.
Stops.
"Orson..."
"Happy Valentine's Day."
She walks over.
Picks up the card.
Opens it.
Reads.
"I don't always get it right. But I'm always trying."
She looks at me.
"Is this about Tuesday?"
Damn it.
Damn it.
"Maybe a little."
"You don't have to apologize with a card."
"I know. But I wanted to. Because I was—I shouldn't have said that. About the benefits. You were telling me about your day and I—"
"It's okay."
"It's not. I was being dismissive."
"You were tired."
"That's not an excuse."
She sets the card down.
Picks up the Cherry Coke Zero.
"You got me Cherry Coke Zero."
"Yeah."
"You remembered."
"I always remember. You just never let yourself get it."
She smiles.
Opens one.
Takes a sip.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"And the rose?"
"Gas station. But it's... it's a rose."
"It's perfect."
She's lying.
It's not perfect.
But she appreciates it.
That's what matters.
THE REAL GIFT
We spend Valentine's Day doing nothing special.
Watch a movie.
Order takeout.
Sit on the couch.
No fancy dinner.
No elaborate plans.
Just... us.
Being together.
Not performing.
Not pretending.
Just being.
And at one point—
during the movie—
she turns to me and says:
"You know what I appreciate?"
"What?"
"That you try."
"I don't always get it right."
"No one does. But you try. And that matters."
"I don't always get it right. But I'm always trying."
The card.
She's quoting the card.
Which means she actually read it.
Actually appreciated it.
Actually got it.
And I realize:
Kyle was right.
The card was good.
Not because of what it said.
But because I showed up.
I tried.
I remembered.
And sometimes—
sometimes—
that's enough.
THE LESSONS
Lesson 1: Don't Wait Until February 13th at 7:47 PM
This is obvious. But apparently I needed to learn it the hard way.
Lesson 2: The Card Doesn't Have to Be Perfect
It just has to be sincere. Even a semi-generic card can say what you need it to say if you mean it.
Lesson 3: Small Additions Matter
A six-pack of their favorite soda they never buy themselves? That shows you're paying attention.
Lesson 4: Apologize Directly, Not Just Through Gestures
The card was nice. But saying "I shouldn't have said that about Tuesday" was necessary.
Lesson 5: Valentine's Day Is Not About Grand Gestures
It's about showing up. Trying. Remembering. Doing the small things that say "I see you and I appreciate you."
Lesson 6: Kyle From Walgreens Gives Good Advice
Listen to Kyle. Kyle knows what he's talking about.
THE EPILOGUE
It's February 15th now.
The day after.
Valentine's Day clearance is in full effect.
Cards: 50% off.
Candy: 75% off.
Those sad stuffed bears: 90% off.
I walk past the Walgreens.
Consider going in.
Buying next year's card now.
Being prepared.
But I don't.
Because I know myself.
I'll forget where I put it.
Or lose it.
Or convince myself it's not quite right.
And I'll be back here.
Next February 13th.
At 7:47 PM.
In the picked-over Valentine's aisle.
Panicking.
But at least I'll know:
It's not about the card.
It's about showing up.
Trying.
Remembering.
And maybe—
maybe—
that'll be enough.
Again.
THE DEDICATION
To Ash.
My arduous valentine.
Not arduous because you're difficult.
But because loving you—
loving anyone—
properly—
is work.
Good work.
Important work.
Work I'm honored to do.
Even when I forget to buy a card until the last minute.
Even when I say stupid things about benefits.
Even when I show up with gas station roses and Cherry Coke Zero.
You see the effort.
The intention.
The trying.
And you love me anyway.
That's the real gift.
Not the card.
Not the candy.
Not the manufactured romance of February 14th.
But the daily choice.
To show up.
To try.
To love.
Even when it's hard.
Especially when it's hard.
Thank you.
For being my arduous valentine.
Every day.
Not just tomorrow.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, card tucked in a drawer for safekeeping. Next to the empty Cherry Coke Zero cans. Next to the gas station rose, now dried and preserved. Not because it's special. But because it represents something. The effort. The trying. The showing up. Valentine's Day ends. But the work continues. Every day. Forever. Arduous. Beautiful. Worth it.)
The Modern Major General of Dollar General
Or: How I Accidentally Became a Strategic Consultant to the Discount Retail Empire
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I am the very model of a modern Major-General,
I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral—
Stop.
Wrong kind of general.
Though... not entirely wrong.
Because for six months—
six glorious, confusing, utterly accidental months—
I became something far stranger:
The Modern Major General of my local Dollar Generals.
Plural.
All of them.
THE BEGINNING
It started innocently.
As all great disasters do.
I needed paper towels.
Simple.
Mundane.
The kind of errand that barely qualifies as an event.
I went to the Dollar General on Fifth Street.
The one near the Taco Bell with the broken sign.
I walked in.
Found the paper towels.
And noticed—
as one does when one has too much time and too many thoughts—
that they were in the wrong place.
Not wrong like "criminally wrong."
Just... inefficient.
They were on the bottom shelf.
In the back corner.
Next to the motor oil.
Which made no sense.
Paper towels are high-frequency items.
Everyone needs paper towels.
They should be visible.
Accessible.
Optimally placed.
I said this.
Out loud.
To no one.
Or so I thought.
THE MANAGER
A voice behind me:
"You're absolutely right."
I turned.
A woman in her forties.
Manager name tag: Brenda.
She looked exhausted in a way that suggested she'd been exhausted since 2008 and had simply learned to operate within it.
"I've been saying that for months," she said.
"But corporate doesn't listen."
"They just send the planogram and we're supposed to follow it."
I nodded.
Because I understood planograms.
Not because I worked in retail.
But because I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And I notice things.
Brenda looked at me.
Really looked.
And then she said the words that would change everything:
"You seem like you know what you're doing."
I did not.
But I do know how to appear confident while having no idea what I'm doing.
It's one of my core skills.
"Would you mind," Brenda continued, "just... looking around? Tell me what else is wrong?"
And I—
because I have never been able to resist a creative challenge—
said:
"Of course."
THE AUDIT
I spent ninety minutes in that Dollar General.
Ninety minutes.
Taking notes.
On my phone.
Like a deranged consultant.
I documented:
Seasonal items (Halloween decorations in July) taking up prime real estate
The greeting card aisle facing the wrong direction
Impulse buy items (candy, gum) positioned too far from checkout
The toy section somehow both overstocked AND inaccessible
A clearance endcap that hadn't been updated since the Obama administration
I presented my findings to Brenda.
She read them.
Slowly.
Then looked up and said:
"This is... actually really good."
"Can you come back tomorrow?"
THE EXPANSION
Tomorrow became next week.
Next week became monthly.
And then—
this is where it gets weird—
Brenda told the other managers.
There are seven Dollar Generals in my area.
Seven.
Within a fifteen-mile radius.
Which says something troubling about late-stage capitalism, but that's another essay.
The other managers started calling me.
Not officially.
Not through corporate.
Just... calling.
"Hey, Brenda said you helped reorganize her store?"
"Could you maybe... stop by ours?"
And I—
because I am a fool—
because I cannot resist the allure of unsolicited retail optimization—
said yes.
THE STRATEGY
I developed a system.
A methodology.
The Orson Optimization Protocol™ (not actually trademarked).
It went like this:
Step 1: The Walk
Enter the store.
Walk every aisle.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Notice the flow.
The bottlenecks.
The dead zones where no customer ever ventures.
Step 2: The Shopper Simulation
Imagine you are a customer.
A tired customer.
A customer who just wants laundry detergent and a Snickers bar.
How quickly can you find them?
If the answer is "not quickly," then something is wrong.
Step 3: The Heat Map (Mental)
Identify the high-traffic zones.
The areas everyone passes through.
Put the high-margin items there.
Put the impulse buys there.
Make them UNAVOIDABLE.
Step 4: The Clearance Purge
If something has been on clearance for more than two months?
It's not going to sell.
Move it to a "last chance" endcap near the exit.
Or accept defeat and donate it.
Step 5: The Seasonal Rotation
Seasonal items should NEVER occupy permanent shelf space.
They go on temporary displays.
Near the entrance.
Where they create excitement.
Urgency.
Then they disappear when the season ends.
No lingering Christmas décor in March.
No Easter baskets in July.
Respect the calendar.
THE RESULTS
The stores started... improving.
Not dramatically.
They were still Dollar Generals.
Still fluorescent-lit temples of "good enough."
But better.
Customers could find things.
Checkout lines moved faster.
Sales—according to Brenda—went up 7%.
Seven percent!
In retail, that's basically a miracle.
The managers started treating me like a visiting consultant.
They'd have coffee ready when I arrived.
They'd walk me through their problem areas.
"The toy aisle is a disaster."
"No one can find the cleaning supplies."
"Why do we have so many bird feeders?"
And I—
with the confidence of someone who has no formal training whatsoever—
would offer solutions.
Move this.
Consolidate that.
For the love of God, put the lightbulbs near the batteries.
THE NICKNAME
It was Brenda who started calling me "The General."
As a joke.
But then the other managers picked it up.
"The General's coming on Thursday."
"Have you asked The General about your seasonal display?"
"The General says we need better signage."
And then—
because I am dramatic and cannot help myself—
I leaned into it.
I started wearing a blazer when I visited.
Carrying a clipboard.
I'd walk in and announce:
"The General has arrived. Show me your problem areas."
It was absurd.
It was ridiculous.
It was glorious.
THE CORPORATE INCIDENT
It couldn't last.
Of course it couldn't.
Because corporate eventually found out.
Not through official channels.
But because one of the district managers noticed that several stores in the same region had:
Similar layout improvements
Better sales numbers
Mysteriously consistent organization strategies
And started asking questions.
"Who authorized these changes?"
"Did you hire a consultant?"
"Where are these memos coming from?"
The managers—bless them—tried to cover.
"Oh, we just... collaborated."
"Shared some ideas."
"You know, team building."
But corporate wasn't buying it.
They sent someone.
A guy named Todd.
Regional something-or-other.
He walked into the Fifth Street store while I was there.
Clipboard in hand.
Mid-consultation.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
Brenda looked at both of us.
Todd said: "Who are you?"
I said—and I will never regret this—
"I am the Modern Major General of Dollar General."
There was a pause.
A long one.
Todd blinked.
"That's... not a real position."
"And yet," I said, "here I am."
THE END
They asked me to stop.
Politely.
But firmly.
Something about "liability."
And "unauthorized store modifications."
And "we appreciate your enthusiasm but please don't come back."
The managers were apologetic.
Genuinely sad.
Brenda gave me a gift card.
$25.
To Dollar General.
I still have it.
I can't bring myself to use it.
It feels like accepting a severance package from a job I never officially had.
THE LEGACY
But here's the thing:
The changes stuck.
I drive past those Dollar Generals sometimes.
The ones I "consulted" for.
And I can see—through the windows—
that the paper towels are still in the right place.
The seasonal displays are rotated properly.
The clearance endcaps are current.
My work remains.
I didn't change the world.
I didn't cure disease or end suffering.
I just... made it slightly easier to find paper towels in seven Dollar Generals in a fifteen-mile radius.
But in its own small way—
in its own absurd, unnecessary way—
that mattered.
At least to me.
And probably to Brenda.
THE REFLECTION
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if corporate had embraced it.
If they'd said: "You know what? Let's hire this weirdo."
"Let's make him an actual consultant."
But they didn't.
Because corporations don't work that way.
They don't want clever solutions from theater people who wandered in off the street.
They want metrics.
Credentials.
Compliance.
And I—
I am none of those things.
I am just a man who noticed that paper towels were in the wrong place.
And couldn't let it go.
THE ANTHEM
So yes.
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.
I know the layouts vegetable, seasonal, and mineral.
I've reorganized clearance from the recent to the trivial,
In matters of endcaps I'm the expert most tribunal.
I'm very well acquainted with the flow of customer travel,
I understand the science of why certain products sell or unravel.
About the planogram I'm teeming with a lot of news—
With many cheerful facts about the placement of children's shoes!
(I'm sorry. I had to.)
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, blazer draped over one arm, unused $25 gift card in pocket. Behind him, in seven Dollar Generals across the region, paper towels sit exactly where they should be. His legacy, modest but undeniable, endures.)
Volstead Homestead Volstead Instead Ousted
Or: The Day I Confidently Argued About Something I Didn't Understand While Holding Cured Meats
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I need to tell you about the day I lost an argument.
Not just lost.
Devastatingly, publicly, humiliatingly lost.
An argument I started.
An argument I was confident—certain—I would win.
An argument about American history.
About legislation.
About the Homestead Act.
Except it wasn't about the Homestead Act.
It was about the Volstead Act.
And I—
standing in a FedEx—
holding a box of cured meats—
did not know the difference.
THE SETUP
It was a Tuesday.
2:30 PM.
I was at FedEx.
Mailing a package to my brother Darrell.
Darrell lives in Montana.
On what he calls a "homestead."
What I call "a house with a large yard."
But he's committed to the bit.
Raises chickens.
Has a garden.
Talks about "living off the land" while ordering half his supplies from Amazon.
But I love him.
And he'd asked me to send him some specialty cured meats.
Salami. Prosciutto. Pepperoni.
The kind you can't get in rural Montana.
Or can, but won't, because he's "avoiding corporate grocery stores."
So I went to a specialty market.
Bought $87 worth of cured meats.
Packed them carefully in a box with ice packs.
And took them to FedEx.
To ship them to my homesteading brother.
My homesteading brother.
This detail is important.
THE LINE
The FedEx was busy.
Always is.
Everyone mailing packages.
Returns, probably.
(I felt a pang of guilt.)
I waited in line.
Box of meats in hand.
And in front of me—
two people.
Having a conversation.
A loud conversation.
About history.
About legislation.
About—
and I perked up—
The Homestead Act.
THE CONVERSATION
Man #1, wearing a "Don't Tread on Me" shirt: "The Homestead Act was the greatest piece of legislation this country ever passed. Gave people land. Gave them opportunity. That's what made America great."
Man #2, wearing glasses and an air of intellectual superiority: "Greatest? It displaced indigenous populations and led to environmental devastation."
Man #1: "It gave people FREEDOM. The freedom to own land. To build something."
Man #2: "It gave white settlers stolen land."
Man #1: "Here we go with the—"
And then I—
I—
holding my box of meats—
waiting to mail them to my homesteading brother—
having recently listened to a podcast about Prohibition—
chimed in.
"Actually," I said.
"Actually."
The worst way to start any sentence.
Both men turned.
"The Volstead Act—I mean, the Homestead Act—was repealed because it was causing too many problems."
Man #1 blinked. "What?"
"Yeah," I continued, confidence growing. "It was supposed to help people, but it ended up creating all this illegal activity. So they repealed it. In, like, the '30s."
Man #2 stared at me. "The Homestead Act... was not repealed."
"Yes it was," I said. Because I was SURE. I had just listened to that podcast. About legislation being repealed. About the problems it caused.
"The Homestead Act," Man #2 said slowly, "gave 160 acres of public land to settlers. It was passed in 1862. It's still technically in effect in Alaska."
"No," I said. "No, that's—you're thinking of something else."
"I'm not."
"You are. Because the Homestead—the one about giving people land—that was causing all the bootlegging and the illegal activity, so they—"
Man #1 interrupted. "Are you talking about Prohibition?"
"What? No. I'm talking about the Homestead Act."
"The Volstead Act," Man #2 said, with the patience of a kindergarten teacher, "was the legislation that enforced Prohibition. It was repealed in 1933."
I stood there.
Box of meats growing warm in my hands.
And realized—
slowly—
horribly—
what I had done.
THE REALIZATION
I had conflated them.
The Volstead Act (Prohibition enforcement).
And the Homestead Act (free land for settlers).
Two completely different pieces of legislation.
From completely different eras.
About completely different things.
And I had—with full confidence—
merged them into one.
In my brain, they were the same.
Because they sounded similar.
Volstead. Homestead.
Both old.
Both acts.
Both... legislation.
That was enough for my brain to file them together.
Into one super-act.
A hybrid law about giving people land and also banning alcohol.
Which made NO SENSE.
But I had committed.
Publicly.
THE DOUBLING DOWN
Here's the thing about being wrong:
The moment you realize it—
you have two choices.
Admit it immediately. Apologize. Learn.
Double down.
Guess which one I chose.
"Okay," I said, "maybe I'm thinking of a different Homestead Act."
"There's only one Homestead Act," Man #2 said.
"Are you sure? Because I definitely remember learning about the Homestead Act being repealed because of bootlegging."
"That," Man #1 said, "is the Volstead Act."
"Right, but wasn't the Volstead Act about land?"
"No."
"Are you SURE?"
"Yes."
"Because my brother—" I gestured with the box of meats "—lives on a homestead. In Montana. And he's always talking about homesteading laws and—"
"That doesn't make the Volstead Act about land."
"I'm not saying it IS. I'm saying maybe they're related."
"They're not."
"But they could be."
"They're not."
THE INTERVENTION
The FedEx employee—a saint of a woman named Patricia, according to her name tag—
cleared her throat.
"Sir? You're next."
I looked at her.
Grateful.
So grateful.
For the interruption.
For the escape route.
I stepped up to the counter.
Set down my box of meats.
Man #1 and Man #2 were still staring at me.
With a mixture of pity and concern.
Like they'd witnessed something tragic.
"I need to ship this," I said to Patricia.
"Where to?"
"Montana."
"What's in the box?"
"Cured meats."
She paused. "You're shipping... meat?"
"Yes."
"In this heat?"
"I have ice packs."
She looked at the box.
Then at me.
Then at the two men behind me, who were now whispering.
I heard fragments:
"...didn't know the difference..."
"...so confident though..."
"...poor guy..."
THE SHAME SPIRAL
Patricia processed my package.
Slowly.
Methodically.
While I stood there.
Drowning in shame.
Not just for being wrong.
But for being confidently wrong.
For inserting myself into a conversation.
Uninvited.
With information I was certain about.
That was completely incorrect.
For doubling down.
For arguing.
For refusing to admit—even when presented with facts—
that I had mixed up two completely different pieces of legislation.
"That'll be $47.89," Patricia said.
I paid.
In silence.
Took my receipt.
And turned to leave.
Man #1 called after me:
"Hey—just so you know—the Volstead Act was about alcohol."
"I know," I said quietly.
"And the Homestead Act was about land."
"I know."
"They're different things."
"I know."
I left.
Walked to my car.
Sat in the driver's seat.
And Googled—just to be completely sure—
"Homestead Act vs Volstead Act."
Wikipedia confirmed what I already knew:
I was an idiot.
THE AFTERMATH
I called Darrell that night.
"Hey, I shipped your meats."
"Thanks, man. Appreciate it."
"Yeah. Uh... question. You know about the Homestead Act, right?"
"Yeah, why?"
"And you know about the Volstead Act?"
"Prohibition enforcement. Yeah."
"They're... different things."
"Obviously."
"Right. Obviously. I just—I got into this thing today where I accidentally—"
"You didn't."
"I did."
"Orson."
"I conflated them."
"In public?"
"At a FedEx."
He laughed.
Laughed.
For a full minute.
"It's not funny," I said.
"It's hilarious. Did you argue about it?"
"...Maybe."
"Oh my god."
"I thought I was right!"
"About Prohibition being related to homesteading?"
"They both end in 'stead'!"
"That's not—that's not how legislation works."
"I KNOW THAT NOW."
THE EDUCATION
After I hung up—
still humiliated—
I did what any reasonable person would do.
I researched.
Extensively.
To make sure this never happened again.
The Homestead Act (1862):
Gave 160 acres of public land to settlers
Required them to live on it and improve it for 5 years
Intended to encourage westward expansion
Displaced Native Americans
Created environmental problems
Ended (mostly) in 1976, with Alaska exemption until 1986
The Volstead Act (1919):
Officially: "National Prohibition Act"
Enforced the 18th Amendment (Prohibition)
Banned manufacture, sale, and transportation of alcohol
Created massive bootlegging industry
Largely unsuccessful
Repealed in 1933 with the 21st Amendment
Similarities:
Both are old U.S. legislation
Both had unintended consequences
Both have "stead" in the name
Differences:
LITERALLY EVERYTHING ELSE
THE PATTERN
This wasn't the first time.
I realized, sitting there with my Wikipedia tabs open,
that I do this.
Regularly.
I conflate things.
Confidently.
Other Examples:
Thought "Holland" and "The Netherlands" were different countries (they're not)
Argued that "The Great Gatsby" was written by Hemingway (it wasn't)
Insisted that "Led Zeppelin" was named after the Hindenburg (partially true, but I explained it very wrong)
Claimed that "Cinco de Mayo" was Mexican Independence Day (it's not—that's September 16th)
Mixed up the Boer War and the Boxer Rebellion (different continents, different eras, different everything)
I don't do it on purpose.
My brain just... files things incorrectly.
Creates connections that don't exist.
And then—crucially—
convinces me I'm right.
THE PSYCHOLOGY
Why do we do this?
Why do we confidently assert things we don't actually know?
I've thought about this.
A lot.
Since the FedEx incident.
And here's what I've concluded:
Theory 1: The Curse of Surface Knowledge
I had heard of both acts. I knew they existed. My brain assumed that knowing they existed was the same as knowing what they were. It wasn't.
Theory 2: Pattern Recognition Gone Wrong
Volstead. Homestead. Similar sounds. Similar era (ish). Both "acts." My brain connected them. Filed them together. Made a false pattern.
Theory 3: The Confidence Trap
The less you know, the more confident you can be. Because you don't know what you don't know. Ignorance breeds confidence. Knowledge breeds doubt.
Theory 4: Social Performance
I wanted to contribute to the conversation. Wanted to seem smart. Educated. Informed. So I jumped in. Without actually checking if what I "knew" was correct.
Theory 5: The Double-Down Reflex
Admitting you're wrong in public feels like social death. So you argue. You defend. You make it worse. Because backing down feels harder than pushing forward. Even when you're clearly, obviously, devastatingly wrong.
THE SOLUTION
After the FedEx incident, I made some rules for myself:
Rule 1: If you're not 100% sure, don't argue.
95% sure? Not enough. 99% sure? Still not enough. If there's even a SLIVER of doubt—stay quiet. Google it later.
Rule 2: "I think" is your friend.
"I think the Homestead Act was repealed" is wrong, but recoverable. "The Homestead Act WAS repealed" is wrong and committed. Leave yourself an escape route.
Rule 3: If someone corrects you, say "Oh, you're right" immediately.
Not "Are you sure?" Not "But I thought..." Just: "Oh, you're right. My bad." And MOVE ON.
Rule 4: Don't insert yourself into conversations uninvited.
Especially about topics you learned from podcasts you half-listened to while doing dishes.
Rule 5: Wikipedia first, argue later.
If you have the urge to correct someone or contribute a fact, pull out your phone FIRST. Check. Verify. Then speak. Or don't speak. Often don't speak is better.
THE APOLOGY
I never saw those men again.
Man #1 and Man #2.
My debate opponents.
My educators.
My witnesses to shame.
But if I could, I'd say:
"You were right. Both of you. The Homestead Act and the Volstead Act are completely different. I conflated them. I argued when I should have listened. I doubled down when I should have admitted error. I'm sorry for wasting your time and for being That Guy. The guy who confidently argues about things he doesn't understand. I'm working on it. But I'm not there yet. As evidenced by... all of that."
They probably wouldn't remember me.
Or they would.
But as a funny story.
"Remember that guy at FedEx who thought Prohibition was about land?"
And honestly?
I deserve that.
THE BROTHER
Darrell got his meats.
Called me when they arrived.
"They made it. Still cold. Thanks, man."
"Good. Good. Did you know—and I'm just checking—did you know that the Homestead Act and the Volstead Act are different things?"
"Yes, Orson. I did know that."
"Just making sure."
"Are you still obsessing over this?"
"A little."
"It was two weeks ago."
"I KNOW."
"Let it go."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
But I couldn't.
Because the memory lives there now.
In my brain.
Filed under: "Times You Were Confidently Wrong in Public."
A growing folder.
A concerningly large folder.
THE MORAL
So here's what I learned:
Not from the acts themselves.
But from confidently conflating them.
Moral 1: Surface knowledge is dangerous.
Knowing something exists doesn't mean you know what it is.
Moral 2: Confidence is not the same as correctness.
You can be wrong with complete conviction. I am proof.
Moral 3: Admitting error is a skill.
And like all skills, it requires practice. I need more practice.
Moral 4: Sometimes the best contribution to a conversation is silence.
You don't have to weigh in on everything. Listening is also valuable.
Moral 5: Your brain will lie to you.
It will create false connections. File things incorrectly. And then present those errors as facts. Be skeptical. Even of yourself. Especially of yourself.
THE EPILOGUE
I still go to that FedEx.
It's the closest one.
Every time I walk in, I glance around.
Looking for them.
Man #1. Man #2.
Ready with my apology.
My admission.
My explanation of how I've grown.
But they're never there.
Patricia is, though.
She recognizes me now.
Always greets me the same way:
"Shipping more meats?"
"Not today."
"You sure? I could use the entertainment."
She knows.
She knows.
And I accept that.
Because some mistakes aren't erased.
They're just... incorporated.
Into who you are.
Into the stories people tell.
"Remember that guy who argued about Prohibition and homesteading while holding salami?"
That's me.
Forever.
THE FINAL THOUGHT
Volstead. Homestead. Volstead instead ousted.
The words still sound similar.
Still confuse my brain.
But now I know.
I know the difference.
The Volstead Act was about alcohol.
The Homestead Act was about land.
They are not the same.
They are not related.
They don't even make sense together.
And yet—
for one brief, humiliating moment at a FedEx on a Tuesday afternoon—
in my mind—
holding $87 worth of cured meats—
they were.
And two strangers—
and Patricia—
and my brother Darrell—
will never let me forget it.
Nor should they.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, never to confidently argue about historical legislation again. At least not without Wikipedia open. The FedEx remains. Patricia remains, ready to witness the next confident error, the next public conflation, the next person who thinks knowing a word is the same as knowing what it means. The meats arrive safely in Montana. The shame, however, stays local.)
The Man Who Returned Too Much
Or: A Cautionary Tale of Customer Service Abuse and Retail Redemption
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I need to confess something.
Something I'm not proud of.
Something that, in retrospect, reveals a darkness in my character I didn't know existed.
For approximately eighteen months—
between 2016 and 2018—
I returned everything.
Not some things.
Not most things.
Everything.
I became the person that retail workers whisper about.
The customer they recognize on sight.
The name that makes managers sigh.
I became—
The Man Who Returned Too Much.
And I need to tell you how it happened.
THE DISCOVERY
It started innocently.
As all descents into moral ambiguity do.
I bought a shirt at Target.
A blue button-down.
Nothing special.
Wore it once.
Realized it didn't fit quite right.
Returned it.
Easy.
No receipt needed—they looked it up in the system.
No questions asked.
Just: "Would you like store credit or back on your card?"
"Card, please."
Done.
And something in my brain clicked.
Not a good click.
A dangerous click.
The click that says:
Wait. I can just... do this? Anytime?
THE SLIPPERY SLOPE
The next purchase was a coffee maker.
Used it for a week.
Decided I didn't like it.
Returned it.
"Any problems with it?" the customer service person asked.
"Just didn't work for me," I said.
"No problem. Here's your refund."
No problem.
Those two words.
So casual.
So enabling.
Then it was a lamp.
Then a pair of shoes I wore twice.
Then a book I'd already read.
Then a set of towels I'd washed.
Once.
Each time, I told myself:
This is fine. This is what the return policy is for.
If they didn't want people returning things, they wouldn't have a 90-day return policy.
I'm just using the system as intended.
But I wasn't.
I wasn't.
I was abusing it.
And I knew it.
But I couldn't stop.
THE SYSTEM
Here's how it worked:
Target: 90-day return policy. No receipt needed if they can look it up. RedCard holders get an extra 30 days.
Walmart: 90 days for most items. Will take almost anything back. Have seen things.
Costco: Literally forever. No time limit on most items. The return policy that breaks reality.
Amazon: 30 days, but if you complain enough, they'll extend it. Customer service trained to just... give in.
Home Depot: 90 days. 365 days if you're a Pro member. Will accept returns that are clearly used.
I learned them all.
Memorized them.
Became fluent in return policy loopholes.
I knew which stores tracked returns.
Which ones would flag your account after too many.
Which ones didn't care.
I rotated.
Target one week.
Walmart the next.
Never the same store twice in a row.
Never the same cashier.
Strategic.
THE CATEGORIES
I returned everything.
Let me be specific:
Clothing: Bought. Wore once. Returned. Repeat.
My closet became a rental service. Except I wasn't paying. The stores were just... lending me clothes. Temporarily.
Electronics: Bought a Bluetooth speaker for a weekend trip. Returned it Monday. Bought headphones. Used them for two weeks. Returned them. "Sound quality wasn't what I expected." It was exactly what I expected. I just didn't want to pay for it anymore.
Kitchen Items: Bought a blender. Made smoothies for a month. Returned it. "Too loud." It was a blender. They're all loud. Bought a toaster. Returned it. "Didn't toast evenly." It did. I just wanted my money back.
Home Goods: Returned towels after washing them. Returned sheets after sleeping on them for six weeks. Returned a rug. A RUG. That had been on my floor. With vacuum marks. They took it back.
Books: This one haunts me. I'd buy books. Read them. Return them. "I didn't like it." Which was sometimes true. But often wasn't. I just didn't want to pay for knowledge I'd already consumed.
Tools: Bought a drill. Used it for one project. Returned it. "Didn't work as expected." It worked fine. I just didn't need it anymore. Bought a saw. Returned it. Bought a sander. Returned it. I was running a construction project on borrowed tools and calling it "trying things out."
THE JUSTIFICATIONS
I had reasons.
Reason 1: "I'm Poor"
This was true. I was broke. Constantly. The returns helped me survive. If I needed something for a week, I could buy it, use it, return it. Free rental. It felt like... resourcefulness.
Reason 2: "These Companies Can Afford It"
Target makes billions. Walmart makes billions. They budget for returns. They expect it. They're not going to go bankrupt because I returned a coffee maker. This was technically true. But also... not the point.
Reason 3: "The Return Policy Exists"
If they didn't want people returning things, they'd change the policy. I'm just using the system. Playing by their rules. Except I wasn't. I was exploiting them.
Reason 4: "Everyone Does It"
Not everyone. But some people. I'd seen them. The serial returners. The people with bags full of items and receipts. I wasn't alone. Which somehow made it feel... okay. It wasn't.
Reason 5: "It's Not Hurting Anyone"
This was the big one. The lie I told myself every time. Nobody was getting hurt. The stores were fine. The employees didn't care—it wasn't their money. No victims. Except there were. I just wasn't looking.
THE RECOGNITION
Around month nine, something changed.
I walked into Target.
Bag of returns in hand.
Approached customer service.
The woman behind the counter looked up.
Recognized me.
I saw it in her eyes.
Not anger.
Not judgment.
Just... knowing.
Oh. Him again.
She didn't say anything.
Just processed my return.
Professionally.
Efficiently.
But I knew.
I was known.
I was that guy.
THE SHAME
I should have stopped then.
But I didn't.
Because stopping would mean admitting I'd been wrong.
That I'd crossed a line.
That I'd become someone I didn't want to be.
So I kept going.
But the shame was there now.
Growing.
Every return.
Every "this didn't work out."
Every lie about why I was bringing something back.
The shame.
I started avoiding eye contact.
Speaking quietly.
Getting in and out as fast as possible.
Because if I didn't linger—
if I didn't engage—
maybe they wouldn't remember me.
Maybe I could stay anonymous.
But I couldn't.
They knew.
THE BREAKING POINT
It happened at Walmart.
I was returning a vacuum.
I'd had it for two months.
Used it regularly.
It worked fine.
But I decided I didn't want it anymore.
"Reason for return?" the cashier asked.
"It doesn't pick up as well as I thought it would."
She looked at the vacuum.
Then at me.
Then back at the vacuum.
"Sir, this is clearly used."
"I... I used it once. To test it."
"The bag is full."
The bag was full.
Because I'd been using it for TWO MONTHS.
She knew.
I knew she knew.
She knew I knew she knew.
We stood there.
In mutual understanding of what I was.
A liar.
She processed the return anyway.
Because that's what the policy says.
And I walked out.
$89.99 refunded.
And feeling worse than I'd ever felt about money.
THE MATH
I went home.
Pulled up my spreadsheets.
Because yes, I was tracking it.
Of course I was tracking it.
Over eighteen months, I had returned:
47 clothing items
12 electronics
8 kitchen appliances
23 home goods items
9 tools
14 books
6 pieces of furniture (FURNITURE)
Miscellaneous: 31 items
Total: 150 returns.
Total refunded: $8,347.23
Eight thousand dollars.
I had essentially borrowed eight thousand dollars worth of merchandise from retailers.
Used it.
Returned it.
And told myself it was fine.
It was not fine.
THE REALIZATION
I sat with that number.
$8,347.23.
And I thought about the people who made those returns possible.
The customer service workers who processed them.
Who had to smile and say "no problem" while knowing—knowing—I was abusing the system.
The managers who had to approve the returns.
Who saw the patterns.
Who flagged accounts.
Who made notes.
The other customers who paid full price.
Whose honest purchases subsidized my dishonest returns.
Because that's how it works.
Return fraud—and let's call it what it was—fraud—
gets baked into prices.
Everyone pays more because people like me abuse the system.
I wasn't stealing from a corporation.
I was stealing from everyone.
From myself.
THE REFORM
I stopped.
Cold turkey.
No more returns.
Unless something was genuinely defective.
Actually broken.
Not "I changed my mind."
Not "I don't want this anymore."
Not "I used it and now I'm done with it."
Broken.
It was hard.
Harder than I expected.
Because I'd become dependent on it.
On the ability to buy things without commitment.
To live above my means by returning everything.
To have what I wanted—temporarily—without paying the full cost.
Stopping meant:
Actually considering purchases before making them
Living with things I bought, even if they weren't perfect
Accepting that I couldn't afford everything I wanted
Being honest with myself about what I actually needed
It meant growing up.
THE APOLOGY TOUR
I went back.
To the stores.
The ones I'd frequented most.
I didn't apologize directly—that would've been weird.
But I did something else.
At Target: I bought $50 in gift cards. Left them at customer service with a note: "For your next customer who needs help."
At Walmart: I bought supplies for their employee break room. Coffee. Snacks. A card that said "Thank you for your patience."
At Costco: I donated to their charitable fund.
At Home Depot: I bought a gift card and told them to use it for someone who couldn't afford their purchase.
It didn't erase what I'd done.
Didn't make up for the 150 returns.
The $8,347.23 in abuse.
But it was something.
An acknowledgment.
A penance.
A start.
THE CURRENT STATUS
I still shop at those stores.
Sometimes I see the same customer service workers.
The ones who recognized me.
Who processed my ridiculous returns.
They don't say anything.
But sometimes—sometimes—
I catch a look.
A slight nod.
An acknowledgment.
You're different now.
We see it.
And I am.
Different.
I buy things.
I keep them.
Even when they're not perfect.
Even when I regret the purchase.
Because that's part of being an adult.
Making choices.
Living with them.
Paying for them.
THE LESSONS
Lesson 1: Return Policies Are Not Rental Agreements
Just because you can return something doesn't mean you should. The policy exists for defective products and genuine mistakes. Not for your commitment issues.
Lesson 2: Corporations Are Made of People
When you abuse return policies, you're not sticking it to "the man." You're making life harder for the worker at the counter who has to process your clearly-used vacuum and pretend they believe your lie.
Lesson 3: Poverty Doesn't Justify Everything
I was broke. That was real. But being poor doesn't give you license to abuse systems. It just makes you feel like it does.
Lesson 4: The Shame Is the Warning
If you feel ashamed doing something—if you're avoiding eye contact, speaking quietly, trying not to be recognized—your conscience is telling you something. Listen.
Lesson 5: The Math Eventually Catches Up
You can justify individual returns. But when you add them up? When you see the total? That's when you realize what you've become.
Lesson 6: Reform Is Possible
You can change. You can stop. You can be better. It requires honesty. Discomfort. Actually paying for things. But you can do it.
THE CONFESSION
So here it is.
My public confession.
I was The Man Who Returned Too Much.
I abused return policies.
I lied to customer service workers.
I justified bad behavior with poverty and corporate profit margins.
I became someone I'm not proud of.
And I stopped.
Not because I got caught.
Not because I got banned.
But because I finally looked at myself—
really looked—
and didn't like what I saw.
THE MESSAGE
If you're reading this and thinking:
"Oh god, I do this too"—
Stop.
Not tomorrow.
Not after this one last return.
Now.
Because every return you make—
every "it didn't work out"—
every used item you bring back pretending it's new—
You're not beating the system.
You're becoming someone you don't want to be.
And the worst part?
You know it.
That's why you avoid eye contact.
Why you speak quietly.
Why you try to go to different locations.
You know.
And knowing means you can change.
You can stop.
You can be better.
I did.
You can too.
THE REDEMPTION
I still think about those eighteen months.
The 150 returns.
The $8,347.23.
Not with pride.
Not with shame, anymore.
Just... acknowledgment.
I did that.
That was me.
But it's not me now.
Now I'm the guy who:
Keeps things even when they're not perfect
Tips extra at stores with good customer service
Tells retail workers "thank you for your patience" and means it
Actually considers whether I need something before buying it
Lives within my means, even when it's uncomfortable
I'm not perfect.
I still make bad purchases.
Still have buyer's remorse.
Still sometimes look at something and think:
I could return this.
But I don't.
Because I'm not The Man Who Returned Too Much anymore.
I'm just Orson.
Trying to be better.
One purchase at a time.
Kept.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, carrying a shopping bag. Inside: a purchase he's not entirely sure about. A shirt that might not fit perfectly. But he'll keep it. Because that's what you do. You make choices. You live with them. You pay for them. And slowly—transaction by transaction—you become someone you can be proud of. The customer service desk recedes behind him. Quiet. Waiting. For the next customer. But not for him. Not anymore.)
Oil Be Back: A Waiting Room Tale
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I am sitting in a waiting room.
Not a doctor's office.
Not a DMV.
Worse.
A car repair shop.
Specifically, a quick-lube place that promises—
in cheerful letters on their sign—
"In and Out in 30 Minutes!"
I have been here for an hour and twelve minutes.
And I know—
I know—
that when that door opens—
when the mechanic emerges with his clipboard and his practiced look of concern—
my life will end.
Not literally.
But financially.
Which, in America, is basically the same thing.
THE SETUP
I came here for an oil change.
Just an oil change.
A simple, routine maintenance procedure.
The automotive equivalent of a haircut.
Something you do regularly.
Something that costs a predictable amount.
Something that should not—under any circumstances—
destroy you.
But here's what I've learned:
There is no such thing as "just" an oil change.
An oil change is a gateway drug.
A trap.
A financial ambush disguised as responsible vehicle ownership.
You come in thinking: $39.99, plus tax, I'll be out in thirty minutes.
You leave thinking: How do I explain to my landlord that I can't pay rent because my serpentine belt was "concerning"?
THE WAITING ROOM
The waiting room is designed to break you.
Psychologically.
Spiritually.
Financially.
There are chairs.
Uncomfortable chairs.
The kind that are just soft enough to sit in—
but just firm enough to remind you that comfort is not the goal here.
There's a TV.
Mounted in the corner.
Playing the worst possible programming.
Today: a home improvement show where people with unlimited budgets renovate kitchens.
"We had $80,000 to work with, so we went with the Italian marble."
I have $143 in my checking account.
And I'm about to spend $40 of it on oil.
If I'm lucky.
There's a coffee machine.
It dispenses something that is technically coffee.
But tastes like regret and burnt rubber.
I've had two cups.
Not because I want them.
But because it gives me something to do.
Something to hold.
A prop in this theater of waiting.
There's a magazine rack.
Filled with magazines from 2019.
About cars.
Cars I will never own.
Cars that cost more than my student loan debt.
I flip through one.
Mindlessly.
Looking at photos of vehicles that represent financial security I will never achieve.
And then—
in the corner—
the vending machine.
It hums.
Softly.
Menacingly.
Calling to me.
With its rows of snacks I don't need but suddenly want desperately.
THE OTHER WAITERS
I am not alone.
There are others here.
Fellow prisoners.
Each in their own stage of grief.
The Optimist sits near the door.
Phone in hand.
Scrolling.
Occasionally glancing up.
Still believing—somehow—that this will be quick.
That the estimate will be reasonable.
That today is the day nothing is wrong.
Sweet summer child.
The Veteran sits in the back corner.
Arms crossed.
Eyes closed.
Not sleeping.
Just... conserving energy.
They've been through this before.
They know.
They're just waiting for the inevitable.
The Pacing Man cannot sit still.
He walks.
From one end of the waiting room to the other.
Checking his watch.
Looking out the window at his car.
As if he can will it to be finished through sheer anxiety.
I understand him.
I am him.
But I'm too tired to pace.
So I just sit.
And catastrophize.
And stare at the vending machine.
THE VENDING MACHINE DILEMMA
The vending machine stands against the far wall.
Glowing.
Beckoning.
A beacon of processed sugar and questionable decisions.
I can see—from here—
a Kit-Kat on the third row.
B7.
B7.
$1.75.
I want it.
I don't need it.
But I want it.
But here's the problem:
The calculation.
The calculation.
If I buy the Kit-Kat—
if I commit to the Kit-Kat—
that's an admission.
An acknowledgment.
That I'm going to be here long enough to need a snack.
That this isn't going to be quick.
That lunch—real lunch—is not happening.
But if I don't buy the Kit-Kat—
if I resist—
if I hold out, believing I'll be out of here in time for actual food—
What if I'm wrong?
What if I'm here for another hour?
Starving.
Watching that Kit-Kat.
Knowing I could have had it.
Regretting.
This is the game.
The vending machine knows.
It knows.
I stand.
Walk toward it.
Slowly.
Like approaching an altar.
I reach into my pocket.
Pull out my wallet.
Count my cash.
Three ones.
Two fives.
If I spend $1.75 on a Kit-Kat—
and then they tell me my car needs $800 in repairs—
that Kit-Kat better be worth it.
I stand there.
Staring at B7.
The Kit-Kat stares back.
We're in a standoff.
The Optimist walks past.
Glances at me.
At the vending machine.
Says nothing.
But I know what they're thinking:
Just buy it or don't. This isn't a philosophical crisis.
But it is.
THE INNER MONOLOGUE
Do I need the Kit-Kat?
No.
Do I want the Kit-Kat?
Yes.
Will I regret buying it if they call me in the next five minutes?
Probably.
Will I regret NOT buying it if I'm here for another hour?
Absolutely.
Is this about the Kit-Kat?
No.
What is this about?
Control.
Hope.
The belief that if I make the right choice—
if I read the signs correctly—
if I can just predict whether I'll be here long enough to justify a vending machine snack—
then maybe I have some control over this situation.
Which I don't.
I have no control.
But the Kit-Kat decision?
That's mine.
That I can control.
So I stand here.
Paralyzed by choice.
By the weight of this seemingly insignificant decision.
By the knowledge that whatever I choose—
I'll probably regret it.
THE DECISION
I don't buy it.
I walk back to my chair.
Sit down.
Resume waiting.
The Kit-Kat remains in B7.
Untouched.
Judging me.
Ten minutes pass.
My stomach growls.
I think: I should have bought it.
Five more minutes.
Still no word from the garage.
I think: I definitely should have bought it.
I look at the vending machine.
The Kit-Kat is still there.
Waiting.
We're both waiting.
I stand again.
This is ridiculous.
I'm a grown adult.
If I want a Kit-Kat, I can buy a Kit-Kat.
I walk over.
Feed the machine two ones.
Press B7.
The coil turns.
Slowly.
The Kit-Kat shifts.
Moves forward.
Gets stuck.
GETS STUCK.
You have got to be kidding me.
I stare at it.
Dangling there.
Halfway out.
Mocking me.
This is my life now.
This is what I've become.
A man whose Kit-Kat is stuck in a vending machine—
in a car repair waiting room—
while his vehicle may or may not be dying in the next room.
This is rock bottom.
I shake the machine.
Gently at first.
Then less gently.
The Veteran opens one eye.
Watches me.
Says nothing.
Goes back to conserving energy.
The Kit-Kat doesn't budge.
I consider my options:
Walk away. Lose $1.75. Accept defeat.
Buy another snack from the row above. Hope it knocks the Kit-Kat loose. Risk losing another $1.75.
Shake the machine harder. Risk breaking it. Risk being banned from this waiting room forever.
I choose option 2.
Because I am committed now.
This is personal.
I feed the machine another $1.75.
Press C7.
Doritos.
The coil turns.
The Doritos fall.
Hit the Kit-Kat.
Both fall into the slot.
I have won.
I have won.
At great cost.
$3.50 for a Kit-Kat and Doritos I didn't originally want.
But I have won.
I retrieve my prizes.
Walk back to my chair.
Victorious.
Broke, but victorious.
THE CATASTROPHIZING
Here's what's happening in my brain:
They're going to find something.
They always find something.
It's never just an oil change.
Never.
My mind spirals through the possibilities:
Scenario 1: The Upsell
"Your air filter looks pretty dirty. We can replace that for $45."
Do I need a new air filter? Probably not. But what if I do? What if my current air filter is so clogged that my engine is slowly suffocating? What if saying "no" to this $45 filter leads to a $4,000 engine replacement in six months?
Scenario 2: The Warning
"Your brake pads are getting pretty thin. You've got maybe 20% left."
What does 20% mean? Is that like... two more weeks? Two more months? Can I drive on 20% brake pads or is this a legal liability? Will my car fail to stop at an intersection and I'll career into a Walgreens, destroying both my vehicle and my prescription pickup?
Scenario 3: The Discovery
"So we found something concerning under here."
Concerning.
That word.
The worst word in the automotive lexicon.
Because "concerning" means expensive.
"Concerning" means unexpected.
"Concerning" means goodbye savings account, hello credit card debt.
Scenario 4: The Apocalypse
"Your transmission is leaking. We need to do a full rebuild. That's going to run you about $3,500."
This is it.
This is how it ends.
Not with a bang.
But with a transmission leak.
I'll have to sell the car for parts.
Walk everywhere.
Move back in with my parents.
Explain to them—at age 35—that I can't adult anymore because my car needed a transmission.
THE WAITING
Time moves differently in a car repair waiting room.
Minutes stretch.
Expand.
Each one feels like ten.
I check my phone: 2:47 PM
I check again: 2:49 PM
Two minutes.
It felt like twenty.
I unwrap the Kit-Kat.
Break off a piece.
The chocolate is slightly melted from sitting in the vending machine.
But it's mine.
Hard-won.
$3.50 worth of chocolate and corn chips.
I take a bite.
It tastes like victory.
And regret.
And the faint possibility that they'll call me in the next thirty seconds—
meaning I didn't need to eat in the first place—
meaning I could have had real lunch—
meaning this entire vending machine saga was pointless.
But the Kit-Kat is already open.
I'm committed now.
To everything.
The snacks.
The wait.
The impending financial doom.
I try to distract myself.
Scroll social media.
Everyone is having a better day than me.
Someone posted a photo of their new car.
"Just upgraded! Loving this ride!"
I want to comment: Congratulations. I'm currently waiting to find out if my 2009 Civic needs financial life support.
But I don't.
I just scroll.
And wait.
And imagine worst-case scenarios.
THE MANAGER APPEARS
At one hour and forty-three minutes—
thirty-seven minutes after the vending machine incident—
the door to the garage opens.
A man emerges.
Not the mechanic.
The manager.
This is worse.
This is so much worse.
Mechanics give you estimates.
Managers give you eulogies.
He's holding a clipboard.
His face is... neutral.
Practiced neutrality.
The kind that suggests he's about to tell you something you don't want to hear—
but he's been trained to deliver bad news with compassion.
He scans the room.
Makes eye contact with The Optimist.
Shakes his head subtly.
No.
The Optimist deflates.
Then he looks at me.
"McSeinfeld?"
My heart stops.
This is it.
The moment.
The financial reckoning.
I stand.
Walk over.
Trying to read his face.
Trying to prepare myself.
"So," he says, glancing at his clipboard.
"So."
The worst opening word.
Nothing good ever follows "so."
"We did the oil change. That's all done."
I wait.
There's more.
There's always more.
"And we did our complimentary inspection—"
Here it comes.
"—and everything looks good."
I blink.
"What?"
"Everything looks good. Your fluids are fine. Brakes are fine. No leaks. You're all set."
"I'm... all set?"
"Yep. Just the oil change. $42.83."
I stare at him.
This is a trick.
A test.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Nothing else?"
"Nope."
"Not even... the air filter?"
"Air filter's fine."
"The brakes?"
"Good for at least another 10,000 miles."
"The... transmission?"
He smiles.
Not unkindly.
"Your transmission is fine, Mr. McSeinfeld."
THE DISBELIEF
I pay.
$42.83.
Exactly what I expected.
Exactly.
Plus $3.50 for snacks I didn't need.
Total damage: $46.33.
I could have had lunch.
Real lunch.
At a restaurant.
With a plate.
But instead I have:
Fresh oil
A Kit-Kat wrapper in my pocket
Half a bag of Doritos
The knowledge that I won a battle against a vending machine
And lingering suspicion that the universe is playing a long game
I walk to my car.
Keys in hand.
Still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Maybe the car won't start.
Maybe the mechanic forgot to put the oil cap back on and my engine will explode on the highway.
Maybe this is all a simulation and I'm actually in a coma and none of this is real.
But I get in.
Turn the key.
It starts.
Runs smoothly.
Better than before, even.
I pull out of the parking lot.
Merge into traffic.
Drive.
Nothing goes wrong.
THE AFTERMATH
I make it home.
Park.
Sit in my car for a moment.
Processing.
I went in for an oil change.
And got an oil change.
Just an oil change.
Nothing catastrophic.
No financial crisis.
No surprise expenses.
Just... a normal, routine maintenance experience.
And somehow—
somehow—
this feels wrong.
THE PARANOIA
Because here's the thing:
It's never this easy.
Never.
There's always something.
Always a catch.
Always a "well, as long as you're here..."
But not today.
Not this time.
Which means...
Which means it's coming.
The disaster.
The real one.
This was just the calm before the storm.
The universe lulling me into a false sense of security.
So that when the transmission does fail—
when the brake lines do rupture—
when the serpentine belt does snap—
I won't be prepared.
I'll have let my guard down.
And that's when it'll strike.
THE PHILOSOPHY
This is what poverty does to you.
Not actual poverty.
But close-to-the-edge poverty.
The kind where you have money—
but not enough.
Never enough.
Where every unexpected expense is a crisis.
Every car repair a catastrophe.
Every medical bill a disaster.
It trains you to expect the worst.
To catastrophize.
To sit in a waiting room for ninety minutes—
building elaborate financial apocalypse scenarios in your mind—
just in case.
Because being prepared for disaster feels safer than being blindsided by it.
Even if the preparation is just... anxiety.
Just waiting.
Just expecting the worst.
So when the worst doesn't come—
you don't feel relief.
You feel suspicious.
THE PATTERN
I've been here before.
In this waiting room.
Or waiting rooms like it.
Dozens of times.
And every time, it's the same spiral:
Drop off car for routine maintenance
Sit in waiting room
Catastrophize
Imagine financial ruin
Prepare for bad news
Receive... normal news
Feel suspicious
Drive home
Wait for the real disaster
Repeat in six months
It's exhausting.
But I can't stop.
Because the one time I don't catastrophize—
the one time I walk in confident that it'll just be an oil change—
that's when they'll tell me I need a new transmission.
The universe is watching.
Waiting.
Testing me.
THE LESSON
So what did I learn?
Lesson 1: Routine Maintenance is Never Routine
Even when it is, it doesn't feel like it. The anxiety remains.
Lesson 2: Waiting Rooms Are Psychological Warfare
They're designed to break you. To make you grateful for any outcome that doesn't involve a second mortgage.
Lesson 3: Financial Anxiety is Persistent
Even when nothing goes wrong, you still feel like something will. The threat is always there, hovering.
Lesson 4: Hope is Dangerous
Hoping for the best feels like tempting fate. Better to expect disaster and be pleasantly surprised.
Lesson 5: Oil Changes Are Never "Just" Oil Changes
In your mind, maybe not in reality. But in your mind? Always a potential catastrophe.
Lesson 6: The Vending Machine is a Test
Of patience. Of hope. Of whether you believe you'll be there long enough to justify a snack. You'll always make the wrong choice. The Kit-Kat will always get stuck. This is the way.
THE CONCLUSION
I survived.
The oil change.
The waiting room.
The catastrophizing.
All of it.
Nothing went wrong.
Everything was fine.
My car runs.
My bank account is intact.
I am... okay.
For now.
But in six months—
when that little sticker in my windshield tells me it's time—
I'll do it all again.
Drive to the shop.
Sit in the waiting room.
Drink terrible coffee.
Flip through outdated magazines.
And imagine—in vivid detail—
every possible financial disaster.
Because that's what I do.
That's what we all do.
Those of us who live on the edge.
Who know that one unexpected expense could unravel everything.
We sit.
We wait.
We catastrophize.
And sometimes—
just sometimes—
nothing goes wrong.
And that's both a relief and a warning.
Because next time?
Next time it might.
THE PROMISE
But I'll be back.
Oil be back.
In six months.
Or 3,000 miles.
Whichever comes first.
I'll return to that waiting room.
That purgatory of automotive anxiety.
And I'll sit.
And I'll wait.
And I'll spiral.
Because that's the price of vehicle ownership.
Not the oil change.
Not the maintenance.
The waiting.
The catastrophizing.
The ninety minutes of melodramatic dread.
That's the real cost.
And I'll pay it.
Every single time.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, car running smoothly, bank account barely damaged, anxiety fully intact. Behind him, the waiting room waits—empty chairs, terrible coffee, 2019 magazines—ready for the next victim. In six months, he'll return. And the cycle will begin again. Oil be back. Always.)
The Relentless Pursuit of Comfort and Convenience…or…How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Hate the Algorithm
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I ordered a sandwich the other day.
From my couch.
Without speaking to a human being.
Without leaving my apartment.
Without even looking at a menu.
The app—the cursed, omniscient app—already knew what I wanted.
"Your usual?" it asked.
And I—
like a fool—
like a tired, complicit fool—
clicked "yes."
Twenty-three minutes later, a knock at my door.
A person I will never see again handed me a bag.
Disappeared.
I ate.
It was fine.
Perfectly fine.
And that—
that—
is the problem.
THE SEDUCTION
We have been seduced.
All of us.
By comfort.
By convenience.
By the promise that life can be frictionless.
One-click ordering.
Same-day delivery.
Algorithms that know what we want before we do.
It started innocently.
"Wouldn't it be nice," they said, "if you didn't have to go to the store?"
And we said, "Yes. That would be nice."
"Wouldn't it be easier," they said, "if you didn't have to talk to anyone?"
And we said, "Yes. That would be easier."
"Wouldn't it be better," they said, "if we just... handled everything?"
And we—
exhausted, overworked, overstimulated—
said:
"Yes. Please. Take it all. I'm so tired."
And they did.
They took it all.
THE COST
But here's what they don't tell you.
What they never tell you.
Convenience has a cost.
Not in money—though yes, also in money.
But in something deeper.
Something we don't notice until it's already gone.
Friction.
Friction is what makes us human.
The awkward small talk with the cashier.
The unexpected conversation in line.
The moment you run into someone you haven't seen in years and end up talking in the parking lot for twenty minutes about nothing important and everything that matters.
Those moments?
Those beautiful, inconvenient, unscheduled moments?
They're disappearing.
Because we've decided they're inefficient.
THE GROCERY STORE
I used to go to the grocery store.
Not because I had to.
But because... I don't know.
It was something to do.
A reason to leave the house.
A destination with no real stakes.
I'd wander the aisles.
Compare prices I didn't care about.
Stand in the cereal aisle for ten minutes, contemplating childhood.
It was time.
Unproductive time.
Wasted time, maybe.
But it was mine.
Now?
I order groceries online.
They arrive.
In bags.
Chosen by someone else.
Who occasionally makes... interesting substitutions.
I once ordered bananas and received plantains.
I once ordered Greek yogurt and received cottage cheese.
The algorithm said: "Close enough."
And I—because I didn't want to go through the inconvenience of returning it—
said: "I guess it is."
THE DEATH OF BROWSING
Do you remember browsing?
Not scrolling.
Browsing.
Walking through a store with no particular goal.
Discovering something you didn't know you wanted.
Finding a book in the clearance bin.
A shirt on the sale rack.
A kitchen gadget you absolutely don't need but suddenly can't live without.
That's gone now.
Or going.
Because the algorithm doesn't want you to browse.
It wants you to convert.
Click.
Purchase.
Move on.
No wandering.
No discovery.
No happy accidents.
Just: here's what you bought before, would you like it again?
And we say yes.
Because it's easier.
Because we're tired.
Because the thought of making one more decision feels like lifting a boulder.
THE NOTIFICATIONS
My phone buzzes constantly.
Telling me things I didn't ask to know.
"Your order is being prepared."
"Your order is out for delivery."
"Your order has arrived."
"Rate your experience."
"Would you like to order again?"
It never stops.
This relentless, automated hospitality.
This insistence on making everything easy.
But here's the thing about easy:
Easy is a trap.
Because once everything is easy—
once every need is anticipated—
once every desire is fulfilled with a single click—
What's left?
What do we reach for?
What do we long for?
What do we do when there's nothing left to do?
THE COFFEE SHOP
I used to go to a coffee shop.
Every morning.
Same place.
Same order.
But I had to go there.
Had to walk.
Had to wait in line.
Had to exchange pleasantries with the barista whose name I never learned but whose face I knew.
It was a ritual.
Small.
Mundane.
But mine.
Now, I make coffee at home.
With a machine that cost more than my first car.
It makes perfect coffee.
Every time.
Exactly the same.
No surprises.
No burnt batches.
No "sorry, we're out of oat milk."
Just: consistent, efficient, solitary coffee.
And I hate it.
Not the coffee.
The efficiency of it.
The fact that I no longer have a reason to leave.
To walk.
To exist in a space where other humans are also existing.
I've optimized myself into isolation.
THE PROMISE
They promised us more time.
"Use our service," they said, "and you'll have more time for what matters."
And we believed them.
We believed that if we could just eliminate the inconveniences—
the errands, the chores, the small tasks—
we'd finally have time for the important things.
But here's what actually happened:
We eliminated the inconveniences.
And then...
We filled the time with more consumption.
More scrolling.
More shopping.
More optimizing.
We didn't get our time back.
We just got better at spending it on nothing.
THE PARADOX
And here's the cruel irony:
The more convenient life becomes—
the more frictionless—
the more exhausted we feel.
Because convenience doesn't give us rest.
It gives us more capacity.
More capacity to do.
To consume.
To respond.
To be available.
Always.
We're not resting.
We're just... efficiently tired.
THE REBELLION
So here's what I've started doing.
It's small.
Maybe pointless.
But it's something.
I go to the store.
In person.
I wait in line.
I talk to the cashier—even when they clearly don't want to talk.
I browse.
I wander.
I buy things I don't need just because I found them.
I take the long way home.
I get coffee from the shop—even though my machine makes it "better."
I do things the slow way.
The inconvenient way.
The human way.
Not because it's efficient.
But because it's real.
THE CONFESSION
I'm not saying I've quit.
I still order things online.
I still use the apps.
I still let the algorithm tell me what I want.
Because I'm tired.
And weak.
And complicit.
But I'm trying.
Trying to notice.
Trying to resist.
Trying to hold onto the friction.
Because without it—
without the mess and the inconvenience and the beautiful, annoying humanness of it all—
what are we even doing?
THE QUESTION
So I ask you:
When was the last time you did something the hard way?
The slow way?
The way that required you to leave your house?
To wait?
To be present in a moment that wasn't optimized for your convenience?
When was the last time you were inconvenienced—
and didn't immediately try to solve it with an app?
Because I think—
and maybe I'm wrong—
but I think those moments are where life actually happens.
In the waiting.
In the friction.
In the spaces between efficiency and ease.
And we're losing them.
One click at a time.
THE ENDING (WHICH ISN'T REALLY AN ENDING)
I'm still figuring this out.
Still trying to find the balance.
Between convenience and humanity.
Between efficiency and experience.
Between what's easy and what's real.
But I know this:
The algorithm doesn't know what I want.
It knows what I've purchased.
And those are not the same thing.
So I'm going to keep going to the store.
Keep wandering.
Keep being inconvenienced.
Keep choosing friction.
Not because it's better.
But because it's mine.
And in a world that insists on making everything easy—
maybe the most rebellious thing we can do—
is choose the hard way.
The slow way.
The human way.
End Transmission.
The Modern Major General of Dollar General…Or…How I Accidentally Became a Strategic Consultant to the Discount Retail Empire
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I am the very model of a modern Major-General,
I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral—
Stop.
Wrong kind of general.
Though... not entirely wrong.
Because for six months—
six glorious, confusing, utterly accidental months—
I became something far stranger:
The Modern Major General of my local Dollar Generals.
Plural.
All of them.
THE BEGINNING
It started innocently.
As all great disasters do.
I needed paper towels.
Simple.
Mundane.
The kind of errand that barely qualifies as an event.
I went to the Dollar General on Fifth Street.
The one near the Taco Bell with the broken sign.
I walked in.
Found the paper towels.
And noticed—
as one does when one has too much time and too many thoughts—
that they were in the wrong place.
Not wrong like "criminally wrong."
Just... inefficient.
They were on the bottom shelf.
In the back corner.
Next to the motor oil.
Which made no sense.
Paper towels are high-frequency items.
Everyone needs paper towels.
They should be visible.
Accessible.
Optimally placed.
I said this.
Out loud.
To no one.
Or so I thought.
THE MANAGER
A voice behind me:
"You're absolutely right."
I turned.
A woman in her forties.
Manager name tag: Brenda.
She looked exhausted in a way that suggested she'd been exhausted since 2008 and had simply learned to operate within it.
"I've been saying that for months," she said.
"But corporate doesn't listen."
"They just send the planogram and we're supposed to follow it."
I nodded.
Because I understood planograms.
Not because I worked in retail.
But because I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And I notice things.
Brenda looked at me.
Really looked.
And then she said the words that would change everything:
"You seem like you know what you're doing."
I did not.
But I do know how to appear confident while having no idea what I'm doing.
It's one of my core skills.
"Would you mind," Brenda continued, "just... looking around? Tell me what else is wrong?"
And I—
because I have never been able to resist a creative challenge—
said:
"Of course."
THE AUDIT
I spent ninety minutes in that Dollar General.
Ninety minutes.
Taking notes.
On my phone.
Like a deranged consultant.
I documented:
Seasonal items (Halloween decorations in July) taking up prime real estate
The greeting card aisle facing the wrong direction
Impulse buy items (candy, gum) positioned too far from checkout
The toy section somehow both overstocked AND inaccessible
A clearance endcap that hadn't been updated since the Obama administration
I presented my findings to Brenda.
She read them.
Slowly.
Then looked up and said:
"This is... actually really good."
"Can you come back tomorrow?"
THE EXPANSION
Tomorrow became next week.
Next week became monthly.
And then—
this is where it gets weird—
Brenda told the other managers.
There are seven Dollar Generals in my area.
Seven.
Within a fifteen-mile radius.
Which says something troubling about late-stage capitalism, but that's another essay.
The other managers started calling me.
Not officially.
Not through corporate.
Just... calling.
"Hey, Brenda said you helped reorganize her store?"
"Could you maybe... stop by ours?"
And I—
because I am a fool—
because I cannot resist the allure of unsolicited retail optimization—
said yes.
THE STRATEGY
I developed a system.
A methodology.
The Orson Optimization Protocol™ (not actually trademarked).
It went like this:
Step 1: The Walk
Enter the store.
Walk every aisle.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Notice the flow.
The bottlenecks.
The dead zones where no customer ever ventures.
Step 2: The Shopper Simulation
Imagine you are a customer.
A tired customer.
A customer who just wants laundry detergent and a Snickers bar.
How quickly can you find them?
If the answer is "not quickly," then something is wrong.
Step 3: The Heat Map (Mental)
Identify the high-traffic zones.
The areas everyone passes through.
Put the high-margin items there.
Put the impulse buys there.
Make them UNAVOIDABLE.
Step 4: The Clearance Purge
If something has been on clearance for more than two months?
It's not going to sell.
Move it to a "last chance" endcap near the exit.
Or accept defeat and donate it.
Step 5: The Seasonal Rotation
Seasonal items should NEVER occupy permanent shelf space.
They go on temporary displays.
Near the entrance.
Where they create excitement.
Urgency.
Then they disappear when the season ends.
No lingering Christmas décor in March.
No Easter baskets in July.
Respect the calendar.
THE RESULTS
The stores started... improving.
Not dramatically.
They were still Dollar Generals.
Still fluorescent-lit temples of "good enough."
But better.
Customers could find things.
Checkout lines moved faster.
Sales—according to Brenda—went up 7%.
Seven percent!
In retail, that's basically a miracle.
The managers started treating me like a visiting consultant.
They'd have coffee ready when I arrived.
They'd walk me through their problem areas.
"The toy aisle is a disaster."
"No one can find the cleaning supplies."
"Why do we have so many bird feeders?"
And I—
with the confidence of someone who has no formal training whatsoever—
would offer solutions.
Move this.
Consolidate that.
For the love of God, put the lightbulbs near the batteries.
THE NICKNAME
It was Brenda who started calling me "The General."
As a joke.
But then the other managers picked it up.
"The General's coming on Thursday."
"Have you asked The General about your seasonal display?"
"The General says we need better signage."
And then—
because I am dramatic and cannot help myself—
I leaned into it.
I started wearing a blazer when I visited.
Carrying a clipboard.
I'd walk in and announce:
"The General has arrived. Show me your problem areas."
It was absurd.
It was ridiculous.
It was glorious.
THE CORPORATE INCIDENT
It couldn't last.
Of course it couldn't.
Because corporate eventually found out.
Not through official channels.
But because one of the district managers noticed that several stores in the same region had:
Similar layout improvements
Better sales numbers
Mysteriously consistent organization strategies
And started asking questions.
"Who authorized these changes?"
"Did you hire a consultant?"
"Where are these memos coming from?"
The managers—bless them—tried to cover.
"Oh, we just... collaborated."
"Shared some ideas."
"You know, team building."
But corporate wasn't buying it.
They sent someone.
A guy named Todd.
Regional something-or-other.
He walked into the Fifth Street store while I was there.
Clipboard in hand.
Mid-consultation.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
Brenda looked at both of us.
Todd said: "Who are you?"
I said—and I will never regret this—
"I am the Modern Major General of Dollar General."
There was a pause.
A long one.
Todd blinked.
"That's... not a real position."
"And yet," I said, "here I am."
THE END
They asked me to stop.
Politely.
But firmly.
Something about "liability."
And "unauthorized store modifications."
And "we appreciate your enthusiasm but please don't come back."
The managers were apologetic.
Genuinely sad.
Brenda gave me a gift card.
$25.
To Dollar General.
I still have it.
I can't bring myself to use it.
It feels like accepting a severance package from a job I never officially had.
THE LEGACY
But here's the thing:
The changes stuck.
I drive past those Dollar Generals sometimes.
The ones I "consulted" for.
And I can see—through the windows—
that the paper towels are still in the right place.
The seasonal displays are rotated properly.
The clearance endcaps are current.
My work remains.
I didn't change the world.
I didn't cure disease or end suffering.
I just... made it slightly easier to find paper towels in seven Dollar Generals in a fifteen-mile radius.
But in its own small way—
in its own absurd, unnecessary way—
that mattered.
At least to me.
And probably to Brenda.
THE REFLECTION
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if corporate had embraced it.
If they'd said: "You know what? Let's hire this weirdo."
"Let's make him an actual consultant."
But they didn't.
Because corporations don't work that way.
They don't want clever solutions from theater people who wandered in off the street.
They want metrics.
Credentials.
Compliance.
And I—
I am none of those things.
I am just a man who noticed that paper towels were in the wrong place.
And couldn't let it go.
THE ANTHEM
So yes.
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.
I know the layouts vegetable, seasonal, and mineral.
I've reorganized clearance from the recent to the trivial,
In matters of endcaps I'm the expert most tribunal.
I'm very well acquainted with the flow of customer travel,
I understand the science of why certain products sell or unravel.
About the planogram I'm teeming with a lot of news—
With many cheerful facts about the placement of children's shoes!
(I'm sorry. I had to.)
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, blazer draped over one arm, unused $25 gift card in pocket. Behind him, in seven Dollar Generals across the region, paper towels sit exactly where they should be. His legacy, modest but undeniable, endures.)
The Quest for the Holy Grail…Or…My Eternal Search for the Perfect Gas Station Pop
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I am on a quest.
A sacred quest.
A quest that has consumed years of my life and countless miles of highway.
I seek the Holy Grail.
Not the cup of Christ.
Not some dusty chalice from the Last Supper.
No.
I seek something far more elusive.
Far more precious.
The perfect gas station fountain diet soda.
THE IMPORTANCE OF DIET
Let me be clear about something.
This must be diet.
Must.
Regular soda pop—with its full complement of sugar—sends me into a blind rage.
Not metaphorically.
Not "oh, I get a little cranky."
No.
I mean a primal, unstoppable fury.
A berserker state.
Once, I accidentally drank regular Mountain Dew.
I woke up three hours later in a Target parking lot.
Holding a decorative gourd.
No memory of how I got there.
No explanation for the gourd.
Just... rage residue, confusion, and a series of bruises of unclear origin.
So yes.
Diet.
This is non-negotiable.
THE PARAMETERS
The perfect fountain soda is not simply about the beverage itself.
It's about the entire experience.
The alchemy.
The variables.
The evervescence
Let me explain.
The Carbonation
Must be aggressive.
Not timid.
Not "gently sparkling."
I want it to fight me.
I want that first sip to feel like a tiny, delicious explosion.
Too flat? Unacceptable.
That's just sad syrup water.
The Ice
Crushed. Always crushed.
Cubed ice is for cowards and people who don't understand surface area.
Crushed ice integrates with the beverage.
Becomes part of the experience.
Cubed ice just... floats there.
Judging you.
Taking up space that should be occupied by more soda.
The Syrup-to-Carbonation Ratio
This is critical.
Critical.
Too much syrup? Cloying. Overwhelming. A liquid assault.
Too little? You're basically drinking TV static with a vague memory of flavor.
The ratio must be perfect.
And here's the thing:
No two gas stations have the same ratio.
Because no one—and I mean no one—is properly maintaining these machines.
The Cup
Must be large.
Not medium.
Not "I'm trying to be responsible about my beverage choices."
Large.
Because if I'm going on this quest—
if I'm going to drive to seventeen different gas stations in one afternoon—
I'm not doing it for moderation.
The Straw
Paper straws are an affront to God and nature.
They disintegrate.
They taste like regret.
If you hand me a paper straw, I will simply drink from the rim like a medieval peasant.
Plastic is controversial, I know.
But for fountain soda?
Necessary.
THE STATIONS
Over the years, I have developed a comprehensive taxonomy of gas station fountain soda quality.
A ranking system.
A hierarchy.
Tier 1: The Legends
These are rare.
Mythical, almost.
The stations where everything aligns.
Perfect carbonation.
Proper syrup ratio.
Ice that's actually cold.
Machines that were serviced sometime in the last month.
I've found maybe three in my entire life.
One was a Speedway outside of Columbus.
One was a QuikTrip in Kansas City.
And one—this haunts me—was a nameless truck stop somewhere in Indiana that I can no longer find.
I've tried.
God, I've tried.
I've driven that route six times.
It's gone.
Like Brigadoon.
Appearing only when the conditions are right.
Or possibly demolished for a Panera.
Tier 2: The Reliables
Solid.
Consistent.
Nothing fancy, but they deliver.
7-Eleven usually falls here.
Wawa, if you're on the East Coast.
These stations understand the fundamentals.
They might not achieve transcendence—
but they won't betray you.
Tier 3: The Variables
These are the wild cards.
Could be great.
Could be terrible.
Entirely dependent on:
Time of day
Who last serviced the machine
Cosmic alignment
Whether Mercury is in retrograde
Shell stations live here.
BP stations.
Circle K on a good day.
You're gambling.
Tier 4: The Disappointments
They have a fountain machine.
Technically.
But it's been broken since 2014.
The carbonation is a distant memory.
The ice dispenser makes a sound like dying machinery.
Half the buttons don't work.
And there's always—always—one flavor that's just... out.
Not marked "out."
Just... producing clear liquid.
Mystery fluid.
You press "Diet Coke" and get what I can only describe as "the concept of soda."
Most independent gas stations fall here.
Through no fault of their own.
Just... entropy.
Tier 5: The Abandoned
The machine is there.
But it's not plugged in.
Or it's been converted into storage for squeegees and windshield fluid.
Or there's a handwritten sign that says "Out of Order Since March."
It's March of the following year.
These stations have given up.
And honestly?
I respect that.
At least they're honest.
THE JOURNEY
My quest has taken me far.
Farther than any reasonable person should go for a beverage.
I've driven forty minutes out of my way because someone told me about a Marathon station with "really good carbonation."
They were right.
It was good.
For three weeks.
Then something changed.
The ratio shifted.
The magic died.
I've stood in gas stations at 2 AM—
the only customer—
sampling multiple flavors like a sommelier.
Diet Coke.
Diet Pepsi.
Diet Mountain Dew.
Coke Zero.
That weird Diet Dr. Pepper knockoff called "Dr. Thunder" or "Dr. Bob" or "Medical Professional."
Each one a possibility.
Each one a potential Grail.
I've engaged in lengthy conversations with gas station clerks about their fountain maintenance schedules.
Most look at me like I'm insane.
One—bless him—actually checked the service log.
Told me they'd just been cleaned that morning.
I bought three sodas.
All large.
Felt like a king.
THE VARIABLES I CANNOT CONTROL
Here's what drives me mad:
The perfect fountain soda is temporary.
Even when you find it—
even when all the stars align—
it won't last.
Because:
The syrup will run low
The CO2 will need replacing
The machine will drift out of calibration
Someone will change the filter
Corporate will switch suppliers
The universe will shift
I've returned to stations that once poured perfection—
only to find they've fallen to Tier 3.
Or worse.
It's heartbreaking.
Like visiting an old friend who's changed.
Who's lost something essential.
And you can't quite put your finger on what.
But you know.
THE SUGAR INCIDENT
I must tell you about the time I was betrayed.
By my own hubris.
By my own carelessness.
I was at a Shell station.
Tier 3, but I was feeling lucky.
I filled my cup.
Took a long, satisfying pull from the straw.
And immediately—
immediately—
I knew.
This was not diet.
This was regular.
Full sugar.
The forbidden nectar.
But it was too late.
The sugar hit my system like a starter pistol.
And I—
I transformed.
Not literally.
But close enough.
Everything became sharp.
Loud.
Unacceptable.
A man asked if I was in line at the checkout.
I said—and I quote—
"The CONCEPT of lines is a SOCIAL CONSTRUCT designed to CONTROL us!"
He moved away quickly.
The clerk asked if I was okay.
I bought seventeen scratch-off tickets.
I don't even play the lottery.
I drove to three different Walmarts.
Bought nothing.
Just... walked the aisles.
Seething.
When I finally came down—
hours later—
I was in my car.
In a Sonic parking lot.
Holding a bag of mozzarella sticks I didn't remember ordering.
And I made a vow:
Never again.
From that day forward, I would always test.
One small sip.
Just to verify.
Before committing to the full beverage.
Because sugar—regular, uncut, full-strength sugar—
cannot be trusted.
THE PHILOSOPHY
You might ask: "Orson, why does this matter so much?"
"It's just a drink."
"Just carbonated water and artificial sweetener."
And you'd be right.
Technically.
But you'd also be missing the point.
The quest isn't about the soda.
It's about the pursuit.
It's about having something to search for.
Something that keeps you driving.
Keeps you exploring.
Keeps you walking into gas stations you've never seen before—
in towns you don't know—
hoping that maybe—
maybe—
this one will be different.
This one will be the one.
It's about the journey.
The documentation.
The small moments of perfection.
And yes—
it's about the soda.
Because when you finally find it—
when you take that first sip and everything is right—
the carbonation perfect—
the ratio divine—
the ice crushed just so—
It's transcendent.
For three glorious minutes, the world makes sense.
And then you finish.
And you're left with:
A cup of ice.
A wet straw.
And the knowledge that you have to find it again.
THE GRAIL
I haven't found it yet.
The perfect fountain soda.
The Grail.
Oh, I've found good ones.
Great ones, even.
But perfect?
That remains elusive.
Maybe it doesn't exist.
Maybe it's the searching that matters.
Maybe the Grail isn't meant to be found—
only pursued.
But I'll keep looking.
Because what else am I going to do?
Drive past gas stations without stopping?
Never.
I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And this is my quest.
My burden.
My calling.
So if you see me—
standing at a fountain machine at 11 PM—
sampling every diet option—
taking notes—
Don't interrupt.
Don't judge.
Just know:
I'm doing important work.
Holy work.
And someday—
maybe not today—
maybe not tomorrow—
but someday—
I will find it.
The perfect gas station fountain diet soda.
And when I do?
I'll have exactly three minutes to enjoy it.
Before I have to start all over again.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, carrying a large fountain soda, crushed ice visible through the translucent cup. He takes a sip. Pauses. Considers. Nods approvingly. Then drives to the next gas station. The quest continues.)
How I Survived The Great Christmas Tree Cake Shortage of '23.
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
In the autumn of 2023, I learned something about myself.
Something I wish I hadn't.
Something that, frankly, I'm not proud of.
I learned that I am capable of driving to eleven different stores in a single afternoon—
across three counties—
in increasingly desperate pursuit of—
Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.
Not for a child.
Not for a party.
Not even for a reasonable nostalgic craving.
Just... for me.
Because they were gone.
And when something becomes scarce—
when something you've always been able to casually acquire suddenly isn't there—
you stop being a rational person.
You become a hunter.
A gatherer.
A hoarder.
THE DISCOVERY
It was mid-November.
Still too early for Christmas, technically.
But the stores had already pivoted.
Turkeys were being shoved aside.
Pumpkin spice was being purged.
And the seasonal snack cakes—
those beautiful, unnecessary, chemically-preserved monuments to holiday joy—
were appearing.
I went to my local Kroger.
Casual.
Not even thinking about it.
Just wandered down the snack cake aisle like I always do.
And there they were.
Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.
Green frosting.
Red and white sprinkles.
That unmistakable tree shape.
Childhood in a box.
I grabbed two.
Thought about grabbing three.
Decided I wasn't an animal.
Two was reasonable.
Two was civilized.
I went home.
Ate one that night.
It was perfect.
Artificially perfect.
The kind of perfect that can only be achieved through industrial food science and a complete disregard for nutritional value.
I thought: I'll get more next week.
THE SHORTAGE BEGINS
Next week came.
I went back to Kroger.
The shelf where the Christmas Tree Cakes had been?
Empty.
Not "running low."
Not "picked over."
Empty.
Just a gap.
A void.
Where joy used to be.
I asked someone stocking shelves nearby.
"Excuse me, do you know when you're getting more Christmas Tree Cakes?"
He looked at me.
Then at the empty shelf.
Then back at me.
And shrugged.
Shrugged.
As if this wasn't a crisis.
"Supply chain issues," he said.
And walked away.
Supply chain issues.
Those three words.
The explanation for everything wrong in the modern world.
THE SEARCH EXPANDS
I went to another Kroger.
Empty.
Target.
Empty.
Walmart—which I avoid on principle but desperate times, etc.
Empty.
Meijer.
CVS.
Walgreens.
Dollar General (where I still have honorary status, thank you very much).
All empty.
It was like the Christmas Tree Cakes had been raptured.
Taken up to snack cake heaven.
Leaving the rest of us behind to suffer through regular Swiss Rolls like peasants.
THE ESCALATION
I started checking stores I didn't even know existed.
Small regional grocers.
Gas stations in towns I'd never heard of.
A place called "SaveMart" that looked like it had been abandoned in 1987 but was somehow still operating.
Nothing.
I joined Facebook groups.
Yes.
Facebook groups.
Groups with names like "Little Debbie Lovers" and "Snack Cake Hunters."
People were posting photos.
Grainy, desperate photos.
"Found ONE box at a gas station in Terre Haute!"
"Limit 2 per customer at the Meijer on 86th Street!"
It was like a black market.
A snack cake underground.
People were trading.
"I'll give you a box of Zebra Cakes for half a box of Christmas Trees."
Someone offered $30 for a single box.
Thirty dollars!
For something that retails for $2.99!
I did not pay thirty dollars.
But I considered it.
And that—
that's when I knew I'd lost myself.
THE RATIONING
I still had one box left.
The second box I'd bought back when the world made sense.
I put it in the pantry.
And I rationed.
One cake per week.
Maybe two if I'd had a particularly difficult day.
I treated each one like a sacrament.
Opening the plastic wrapper slowly.
Appreciating the artificial green frosting.
The spongy vanilla cake beneath.
The cream filling that tasted like nostalgia and preservatives.
I made them last.
Because I didn't know if I'd ever see them again.
THE THEORIES
People had theories about the shortage.
Theory 1: Ingredient Issues
Maybe there was a shortage of the specific dye used for the green frosting.
Or the sprinkles.
Or the essence of tree.
Theory 2: Increased Demand
Maybe everyone had the same idea at the same time.
Maybe 2023 was the year everyone collectively decided they needed Christmas Tree Cakes.
A shared cultural craving.
Theory 3: Corporate Strategy
Maybe—and this is the dark one—
Maybe Little Debbie was intentionally creating scarcity.
Manufacturing demand through deprivation.
Making us desperate.
Making us pay attention.
I didn't want to believe it.
But capitalism is capable of anything.
Theory 4: The Simulation
Maybe we're in a simulation and whoever's running it just... forgot to restock the Christmas Tree Cakes.
A small glitch.
An oversight.
And we—the NPCs—are left scrambling.
(I don't actually believe this one. But late at night, driving to my eighth store, it seemed plausible.)
THE BREAKDOWN
There was a moment—
a low point—
when I stood in the snack cake aisle of a Marsh Supermarket that was clearly about to go out of business.
Flickering lights.
Half-empty shelves.
An employee who looked like he'd been there since the Carter administration.
And I said—
out loud—
to no one—
"Why? Why is this happening to me?"
The employee looked over.
Said nothing.
Went back to stocking canned corn.
And I realized:
This wasn't happening to me.
This was just... happening.
The world doesn't owe me Christmas Tree Cakes.
Little Debbie doesn't owe me anything.
Scarcity is not personal.
It's just... the way things are sometimes.
But knowing that didn't make it hurt less.
THE BREAKTHROUGH
And then.
December 12th.
I was at a Kroger.
Not even looking for them anymore.
Just buying milk and bread like a normal person who had moved on with his life.
And I turned the corner into the snack cake aisle—
purely by chance—
and there—
THERE—
Fully stocked.
Two full rows.
Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.
Green frosting gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
Like a miracle.
Like manna.
Like the universe had finally decided I'd suffered enough.
I stood there.
Frozen.
A woman with a cart tried to get past me.
I didn't move.
She went around.
I approached slowly.
Afraid that if I moved too fast they'd disappear.
That this was a mirage.
A cruel trick.
But I reached out—
and they were real.
THE DECISION
Here's where it gets interesting.
I stood there.
Cart in hand.
Staring at two full rows of Christmas Tree Cakes.
After weeks of searching.
After eleven stores.
After joining Facebook groups and considering black market purchases.
After rationing my last box like it was the final days of a siege.
And I thought:
How many do I take?
The old me—the me from six weeks ago—would have said "two boxes."
Maybe three.
Reasonable.
Modest.
But the me standing there—
the me who had been scarred by scarcity—
wanted to take all of them.
Every single box.
To protect myself from future deprivation.
To ensure this never happened again.
To hoard.
THE CHOICE
I took four boxes.
Four.
Not two.
Not all of them.
Four.
A compromise between my fear and my conscience.
Enough to feel secure.
Not enough to deprive someone else.
At checkout, the cashier looked at my cart.
Four boxes of Christmas Tree Cakes.
Milk.
Bread.
She said nothing.
But I saw the judgment.
Or maybe I just felt it.
Because I was judging myself.
THE REFLECTION
I got home.
Put the boxes in the pantry.
Stared at them.
And felt... strange.
Not happy.
Not satisfied.
Just... strange.
Because I'd gotten what I wanted.
But the wanting had changed me.
Had revealed something about my character.
Something about how quickly I can go from "rational person" to "person hoarding snack cakes."
Scarcity does that.
It strips away the veneer.
Shows you who you really are when resources are limited.
And apparently, I am someone who will drive across three counties for artificially flavored sponge cake.
THE AFTERMATH
The Christmas Tree Cakes stayed available after that.
Fully stocked.
Like the shortage had never happened.
Like it was all a test.
A trial.
I ate my four boxes slowly.
Throughout December.
Into January.
They tasted the same.
But different.
Because now they carried weight.
The weight of the search.
The desperation.
The journey.
Food tastes different when you've had to fight for it.
Even if the fight was just driving around looking at empty shelves.
THE LESSON
What did I learn from the Great Christmas Tree Cake Shortage of '23?
Several things:
1. Scarcity reveals character.
And sometimes what it reveals isn't flattering.
2. Nostalgia is powerful.
Powerful enough to make you irrational.
3. We live in a fragile system.
One supply chain hiccup and suddenly your favorite snack cake becomes a rare commodity.
4. Hoarding is a spectrum.
And I'm somewhere on it.
5. Sometimes the quest matters more than the prize.
But also, the prize still matters.
Because it's a Christmas Tree Cake.
And those are objectively delightful.
THE EPILOGUE
It's 2024 now.
The Christmas Tree Cakes are back.
Readily available.
I buy them when I want them.
Two boxes at a time.
Like a civilized person.
But I remember.
I remember the empty shelves.
The eleven stores.
The Facebook groups.
The desperation.
And I know—
I know—
that if it happens again—
if the shelves empty—
if the supply chain falters—
I will do it all over again.
Because I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And I am nothing if not committed to my snack cake pursuits.
Even when they reveal the worst parts of who I am.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, holding a Christmas Tree Cake wrapped carefully in plastic. He takes a bite. Savors it. Not because it's particularly delicious—though it is—but because he remembers when he couldn't have it. And that memory? That makes it taste just a little bit sweeter.)
Aisle C Was Angry That Day, My Friends!
A Tale of Canned Goods, Chaos, and One Man's Reckoning
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
Aisle C was angry that day, my friends.
Like an old man trying to send back soup at a deli.
But this wasn't soup.
This was soup.
And beans.
And tomato products in their infinite configurations.
This was the canned goods aisle.
And it was furious.
I could feel it the moment I turned the corner.
The air was different.
Heavier.
Charged with the kind of energy you usually only encounter before a thunderstorm or a contentious HOA meeting.
The fluorescent lights flickered.
Not dramatically.
Not like in a horror movie.
Just... enough.
Enough to make you think:
Something is wrong here.
Something is deeply, structurally wrong.
It started with the cans.
They were... off.
Misaligned.
Not in the charming "someone grabbed one and didn't push the others forward" way.
But in a way that suggested intent.
Malice.
Like the cans themselves had grown tired of their positions and decided—collectively—to stage a revolt.
Campbell's Cream of Mushroom?
Sideways.
Progresso Chicken Noodle?
Upside down, label facing inward like it had something to hide.
And the store-brand tomato sauce?
On the floor.
Just... there.
Rolling slightly.
As if it had flung itself from the shelf in protest.
I bent down to pick it up.
Because that's what you do, isn't it?
You see something out of place, and you fix it.
You restore order.
You do your small part to keep the universe from descending into chaos.
But when I reached for it—
I swear on everything I hold sacred—
it rolled away from me.
Not fast.
Not cartoonishly.
Just... deliberately.
Like it was saying:
"No. Not today, Orson. Today, I am free."
I stood up.
Looked around.
Surely someone else had noticed.
Surely I wasn't the only one bearing witness to this... this uprising.
But the aisle was empty.
Completely empty.
Which was strange.
Because Aisle C is never empty.
It's the workhorse aisle.
The everyday aisle.
The "I need something for dinner and I don't want to think too hard about it" aisle.
People live in Aisle C.
But that day?
Nothing.
Just me.
And the cans.
And the palpable sense that I had walked into something I didn't understand.
That's when I heard it.
A sound.
Faint at first.
Like... settling.
You know that sound old houses make?
When the wood contracts and you tell yourself it's "just the house settling"?
It was like that.
But it was the shelf.
The entire shelf.
Groaning.
Shifting.
Like it was bearing a weight it could no longer sustain.
I took a step back.
Slowly.
Carefully.
And then—
CRASH.
Not the whole shelf.
Just... one section.
A cascade of kidney beans.
Red.
Black.
Pinto.
Garbanzo.
All of them tumbling to the floor in a metallic avalanche.
And I—
I stood there.
Frozen.
Watching this happen.
Watching Aisle C lose its mind.
An employee appeared.
Out of nowhere.
Like they'd been summoned.
A young man.
Couldn't have been more than twenty-two.
Wearing the store vest with the kind of resignation you usually see on pallbearers.
He looked at the beans.
Then at me.
Then back at the beans.
And he said—
I will never forget this—
he said:
"Yeah. It's been doing that."
"Doing what?" I asked.
"Falling," he said, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.
"The cans just... fall."
"Why?"
He shrugged.
A shrug so profound, so existentially weary, that it could have been a TED Talk.
"Nobody knows. Corporate sent someone last week. They couldn't figure it out either."
He bent down.
Started picking up beans.
Slowly.
One at a time.
And I—
because I am not a monster—
I helped.
We worked in silence.
Restacking.
Realigning.
Attempting to impose order on a system that had clearly rejected it.
And as we worked, I noticed something.
The cans weren't just falling randomly.
There was a pattern.
A logic.
All the cans that had fallen?
They were the same brand.
Store brand.
Every single one.
The name brands—Campbell's, Progresso, Bush's—they were fine.
Untouched.
Standing tall and proud on their shelves like smug little soldiers.
But the store brand?
Rebellion.
I pointed this out to the young man.
He looked.
Blinked.
And then—
he laughed.
Not a happy laugh.
Not a "isn't that funny" laugh.
But the kind of laugh that comes when you realize something true and terrible about the world.
"They know," he said.
"They know."
"Know what?"
He stood up.
Holding a can of store-brand black beans.
And he looked at it like Hamlet looking at Yorick's skull.
"That nobody wants them," he said quietly.
"That they're the backup plan. The last resort. The 'I guess this will do.'"
He set the can down gently.
Almost reverently.
"And they're mad about it."
I wanted to argue.
To say that store-brand products are perfectly good.
That they're often made in the same facilities as name brands.
That the only difference is the label and the price.
But I couldn't.
Because standing there, in Aisle C, surrounded by the aftermath of a canned goods insurrection—
I understood.
I understood the anger.
The resentment.
The quiet fury of being perpetually second-choice.
Of being picked only when the first option wasn't available.
Or when the budget was tight.
Or when someone just didn't care enough to choose.
The store-brand cans weren't just falling.
They were protesting.
We finished restacking.
The young man thanked me.
Wandered off to whatever other small disaster awaited him.
And I stood there.
Alone again.
In Aisle C.
Which was no longer angry.
Or maybe it was just... tired.
The way we all get tired.
When we've made our point and no one was really listening anyway.
I grabbed what I came for.
A can of tomato sauce.
Name brand, I'm ashamed to say.
Old habits.
But as I walked away—
I looked back.
One last time.
And I swear.
I swear.
I saw a can of store-brand green beans.
Right on the edge of the shelf.
Teetering.
And I thought:
Go ahead. Jump. You've earned it.
Aisle C was angry that day, my friends.
And honestly?
It had every right to be.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, clutching his name-brand tomato sauce with a newfound sense of guilt. Behind him, somewhere in Aisle C, a can falls. Slowly. Purposefully. Free at last.)
The Transatlantic Transcontinental Transylvania Railroad
A Journey That Defies Geography, Logic, and Sobriety
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I took a train once.
Not just any train.
The train.
The Transatlantic Transcontinental Transylvania Railroad.
Yes.
All three.
Simultaneously.
I know what you're thinking.
"Orson, that's impossible. Transatlantic means across the ocean. Transcontinental means across a continent. And Transylvania is... a region in Romania."
"These are mutually exclusive concepts."
"This train cannot exist."
And yet.
And yet.
I have the ticket stub to prove it.
Or... I had it.
It disappeared.
Much like my certainty about what actually happened.
THE DEPARTURE
It started—as all great mistakes do—with a Groupon.
$47 for a "luxury rail experience."
The description was... vague.
It mentioned:
"Continental breakfast"
"Historic route"
"Views you won't believe"
"Complimentary garlic bread"
That last one should have been a warning.
But I was intrigued.
Seduced, even.
So I clicked "Purchase."
And three weeks later, I received an email with boarding instructions:
"Platform 9¾. Tuesday. Midnight. Bring layered clothing and an open mind."
Platform 9¾.
Platform 9¾.
I assumed this was whimsy.
A Harry Potter reference for the tourists.
But when I arrived at Union Station—or was it Penn Station? The memory is fluid—
there it was.
Between Platform 9 and Platform 10.
A door.
Unmarked.
Unremarkable.
Except for a small brass plaque that read:
"For Those Who Know."
I... did not know.
But I opened it anyway.
THE PLATFORM
Inside was a platform.
Dimly lit.
Victorian.
Gas lamps flickering with a kind of anachronistic confidence.
There were others waiting.
Not many.
Maybe seven people.
All of them looked like they'd made interesting life choices.
One woman was knitting.
Furiously.
With yarn that seemed... too red.
A man in a trench coat was reading a newspaper.
In a language I didn't recognize.
But might have been... backwards English?
And there was a child.
Just one.
Standing perfectly still.
Holding a balloon.
Staring at nothing.
I sat on a bench.
Tried to look like I belonged.
Like I took mysterious midnight trains all the time.
And then—
I heard it.
The whistle.
Not a modern train whistle.
But the kind you hear in old movies.
The kind that sounds like longing.
Like departure.
Like "you can't go back now."
THE TRAIN
It pulled into the station.
Slowly.
Impossibly slowly.
Steam billowing.
Black iron gleaming under the gas lamps.
The cars were ornate.
Carved wood.
Brass fixtures.
Velvet curtains in the windows.
It looked like something from another century.
Or possibly from a very committed theme restaurant.
A conductor appeared.
Top hat.
Pocket watch.
Mustache so elaborate it seemed structural.
He called out:
"All aboard the Transatlantic Transcontinental Transylvania Railroad!"
His voice echoed.
Which shouldn't have been possible.
We were indoors.
But it echoed anyway.
I boarded.
Because at that point, what else was I going to do?
Go home?
Admit I'd wasted $47 on a Groupon I didn't understand?
Never.
THE CABIN
I found my cabin.
Or it found me.
The numbers on the doors kept changing.
I swear.
One moment it was 12B.
The next, 21B.
Then B12, like a vitamin.
But eventually, one door just... opened.
And a voice—from where? from whom?—said:
"This one's yours."
Inside:
A small sleeper cabin.
Plush red velvet seats.
A fold-down bed.
A tiny window with curtains tied back with golden rope.
And on the table—
A bottle of wine.
A glass.
And a note:
"Complimentary. Enjoy the journey. Do not open the window after 2 AM."
I sat.
Poured myself some wine.
Which was... excellent.
Suspiciously excellent.
And the train began to move.
THE ROUTE
Here's where it gets complicated.
We left the station.
I could see the city lights through the window.
Normal city lights.
Skyscrapers.
Traffic.
Reality.
But then—
we went through a tunnel.
A long one.
Longer than any tunnel should be.
And when we emerged—
Everything was different.
The landscape outside was... European?
Rolling hills.
Stone bridges.
Villages with lights glowing warmly in windows that seemed too far away and too close at the same time.
I checked my watch.
It had stopped.
Naturally.
I looked out the window again.
Now we were crossing water.
Crossing water.
On a train.
Not a bridge.
The train was just... on the water.
Gliding across it like it had made a compelling argument and the ocean had agreed to support its weight.
I finished the wine.
Poured another glass.
I was either dreaming or having the best $47 experience of my life.
THE DINING CAR
At some point—time had become a suggestion—I wandered to the dining car.
It was full.
But also empty.
Let me explain.
There were people.
But they were... translucent?
No.
Not translucent.
Just... not entirely committed to being there.
Like they were dining in multiple realities at once and this was just one of them.
I sat.
A waiter appeared immediately.
He wore white gloves.
Carried a silver tray.
And said, in an accent I couldn't place:
"The special tonight is goulash."
I hadn't asked.
But I said, "Sure."
He nodded approvingly.
And vanished.
The goulash arrived.
From where?
Unclear.
But it was there.
Steaming.
Rich.
Accompanied by that promised garlic bread.
Which was, I must say, extraordinary.
I ate.
And as I ate, I listened.
The other diners were talking.
In languages that shifted mid-sentence.
About places that might not exist.
One woman said:
"I'm transferring in Narnia. Then onward to Cleveland."
Another man:
"I've been riding this line for three years. Or three hours. Hard to say."
And the child with the balloon—who was now somehow sitting two tables away—
said nothing.
Just stared.
Balloon bobbing gently.
In air that wasn't moving.
THE ANNOUNCEMENT
Somewhere around what might have been 2 AM—
or 4 PM—
or possibly last Thursday—
an announcement crackled over the intercom:
"Now approaching: Transylvania Station. Please ensure all windows remain closed. Do not make eye contact with anyone on the platform. Garlic bread will be served."
I looked out my window.
We were pulling into a station.
But not a normal station.
This one was carved into a mountainside.
Torches lined the platform.
Torches.
Not electric lights.
Actual fire.
And the people on the platform—
They were waiting.
Standing perfectly still.
All of them facing the train.
Watching.
I closed my curtain.
Because some instructions you just follow.
THE RETURN
I woke up.
In my cabin.
Sunlight streaming through the window.
The train was stopped.
I looked outside.
We were back.
Back at the station.
The normal station.
The one with fluorescent lights and vending machines and people in athleisure wear.
I gathered my things.
Stumbled onto the platform.
The train—the beautiful, impossible, Victorian train—
pulled away.
And as it did, I noticed:
It wasn't steam-powered anymore.
It was just... a regular train.
An Amtrak.
With the usual scratched windows and questionable upholstery.
Had it ever been anything else?
THE EVIDENCE
I checked my bag.
The wine bottle was there.
Empty.
The garlic bread?
One piece left.
Wrapped in a cloth napkin embroidered with the letters:
T.T.T.R.
I still have it.
I've never eaten it.
It hasn't gone stale.
Which is... concerning.
And sometimes—
late at night—
when I'm scrolling through Groupon—
I see it.
For just a moment.
The listing.
"Transatlantic Transcontinental Transylvania Railroad - $47 - One Night Only"
And I think:
Should I book it again?
Should I return?
Should I finally ask someone—anyone—what the hell that was?
But then the listing disappears.
And I'm left with only the memory.
The garlic bread.
And the unshakable feeling that somewhere—
between here and there—
between real and unreal—
that train is still running.
And it's waiting.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, clutching an embroidered napkin and a Groupon confirmation email that may or may not still exist. Somewhere, a train whistle sounds. He does not look back.)
The Beef Manhattan Project: A Secret History of The Sandwich That Changed Everything
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
In 1942, the United States government gathered the brightest minds in physics to develop a weapon that would end a war.
They called it the Manhattan Project.
Around that same time a team at my local deli, Monty’s, embarked on an equally daring venture in the culinary theatre
They set out to develop a sandwich of sandwiches that would end all other sandwiches.
They called this high-stakes venture…
The Beef Manhattan Project.
And I was there.
Not by choice.
Not by invitation.
But because I happened to be waiting for a turkey club when history was being made.
It started innocently enough.
I was at Monty’s Deli.
A place I’d been going for years.
Reliable.
Unpretentious.
Delicious.
The kind of deli where the menu hasn’t changed in decades
I ordered my usual.
Turkey club. Extra mayo. No tomato because I’m not a child.
And I waited.
But something was different that day.
There was energy in the air.
A tension.
The kind you feel before a thunderstorm.
Or a product launch.
Or a reckoning.
Monty, the owner, was huddled with the kitchen staff.
Whispering.
Gesturing dramatically.
Occasionally, pointing at a chalkboard covered in what looked like… equations?
No.
Not equations.
Sandwich architecture.
Monty cleared his throat.
Loudly.
Like he was about to deliver a State of the Union address to a room of seventeen people who just wanted pastrami.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began.
And I thought: Oh no.
“We are about to do something that has never been done before.”
Someone in line said, “Get us our food in a timely fashion ?”
Monty ignored this.
“We are going to build,” he continued, “the ultimate beef sandwich.”
“You already have a roast beef sandwich,” said an elderly woman holding a ticket that said 47.
“No,” Monty said, with the intensity of Oppenheimer explaining fission.
“Not a roast beef sandwich.”
“THE Roast beef sandwich.”
“The one that ends the conversation.”
“The one that makes every other sandwich obsolete.”
He paused for effect.
“We’re calling it: The Beef Manhattan!”
The team assembled before us.
Like the Justice Society.
But sadder.
And holding tongs.
There was:
Carlos - the grill master. A man who once told me he could “hear when the meat is ready.” I believed him.
Sanjay - the vegetable specialist. Which sounds made up, but he took it very seriously. He once spent ten minutes explaining the structural integrity of lettuce.
Kim - the sauce architect. Quiet. Intense. Rumored to have worked at a Michelin-starred restaurant before “the incident.” No one knew what the incident was. No one asked.
And Daryl - Monty’s cousin. Daryl’s job was unclear. He mostly just nodded and said “yeah, bold” whenever someone suggested something.
This was the team.
This was humanity’s best hope for sandwich perfection.
God help us all.
They started with the foundation.
Bread.
“Ciabatta or sourdough?” Carlos asked.
“Neither,” said Monty. “Both.”
“You can’t use both,” Sanjay said.
“Why not?”
“Because that’s insane.”
Monty stared at him.
“So was splitting the atom.”
Travis nodded. “Yeah. Bold.”
They toasted two different kinds of bread.
Put them on the same plate.
Stared at them.
Someone in line said, “My number was called twenty minutes ago.”
No one responded.
The sandwich had priority.
THE ESCALATION
Next came the beef.
Not just any beef.
Three types.
Roast beef - traditional, thinly sliced.
Pastrami - for “complexity,” according to Monty.
And brisket - because Kim insisted it needed “a bass note.”
They layered them.
Carefully.
Reverently.
Like they were handling plutonium.
Which, in a way, they were.
This sandwich was becoming dangerous.
This is where things got heated.
Kim suggested a horseradish aioli.
Carlos wanted au jus.
Sanjay—bless him—advocated for “something lighter, maybe a vinaigrette.”
Monty listened to all of them.
Then said: “All three.”
“That’s too much liquid,” Sanjay protested. “The bread will disintegrate.”
“Then we engineer better bread,” Monty said.
And I swear—
I swear—
I saw the light of madness in his eyes.
The same light that must have been in Oppenheimer’s eyes when he realized what he’d created.
Travis said, “Yeah, bold.”
They built it.
Layer by layer.
Meat.
Cheese—three kinds, because “why stop now.”
Pickles—dill AND bread-and-butter, which caused a brief argument.
Onions—caramelized, because this was a serious sandwich.
Lettuce—iceberg for crunch, arugula for “sophistication.”
Tomato—despite my personal objections.
And the sauces.
All of them.
Drizzled.
Slathered.
Poured.
The sandwich grew.
Higher.
Wider.
More unstable.
It became clear that no human mouth could accommodate this.
But they didn’t care.
They weren’t building it for function.
They were building it to prove it could be done.
THE MOMENT OF TRUTH
Monty stepped back.
The team stepped back.
We all stared at it.
The Beef Manhattan.
Sitting on a plate.
Towering.
Glistening.
Defying physics and good sense.
Someone had to eat it.
Monty looked around the deli.
His eyes landed on me.
“You,” he said.
“Me?” I said.
“You’ve been here the whole time. You’ve witnessed this. You have to be the one.”
I wanted to refuse.
I wanted to say I was just here for a simple turkey club.
But I couldn’t.
Because I understood—in that moment—
that this was bigger than me.
This was history.
I approached the sandwich.
Picked it up.
Or tried to.
It immediately began to collapse.
Meat sliding.
Sauce dripping.
Structural integrity compromised.
I took a bite.
Or… the sandwich took me.
I’m not sure which.
It was—
Overwhelming.
Too many flavors.
Too many textures.
Competing.
Clashing.
A culinary arms race with no winner.
Just… chaos.
Delicious chaos.
Terrible chaos.
I chewed.
Swallowed.
Set it down.
Everyone waited.
“Well?” Monty asked.
I looked at him.
At the team.
At the sandwich—now half-destroyed, ingredients spilling across the plate like the aftermath of a very specific disaster.
And I said:
“This… this is too much.”
Monty nodded slowly.
“I know,” he said quietly.
“But we had to know if we could.”
The Beef Manhattan Project was never put on the menu.
It couldn’t be.
It was too powerful.
Too dangerous.
Too expensive, probably.
But it existed.
For one brief moment.
In a deli in a strip mall.
Between the dry cleaner and the tax prep place.
A sandwich that defied reason.
And I was there.
I tasted the future.
And the future was… complicated…
Sometimes I go back to Monty’s.
Order my turkey club.
And I see Monty.
Older now.
Tired.
But every once in a while—
when the light hits him just right—
I see that spark.
That mad glint.
The one that says:
“We could do it again.”
And I think:
Please don’t.
But also:
Please do.
Because someone has to push the boundaries.
Someone has to ask: How much beef is too much beef?
Someone has to build the sandwich that should never be built.
And if not Monty and his team of cafeteria Oppenheimers—
then who?
Fortunately for us, a team of culinarians were able to pick up where we left off and finish The Beef Manhattan Project. Open-Faced, Mashed Potatoes. It was as simple as that.
Until next time…
The Conference Call… Or… The Meeting That May Have Never Happened But Refuses to End
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
I need to tell you about a conference call.
Or… what I *believe* was a conference call.
What I *remember* as a conference call.
What might have been—
and I say this with complete sincerity—
a fever dream conjured by propofol and the lingering anxiety of capitalism.
But here’s the thing.
The troubling thing.
The thing that keeps me up at night, staring at my ceiling, questioning the nature of reality itself:
Things from that call keep happening.
Let me start at the beginning.
I had a procedure.
Minor. Routine. The kind where they say, “You’ll be a little groggy afterward.”
*A little groggy.*
What a quaint understatement.
What a gentle lie.
I woke up in recovery.
Or… I *think* I woke up.
The room was soft around the edges.
The light had a quality I can only describe as “sympathetic.”
The nurse was there, saying something about crackers and juice boxes, and I remember thinking:
This is the most reasonable thing anyone has ever said to me.
And then—
my phone rang.
Not buzzed.
Not chimed.
Rang.
Like it was 1997 and the phone had feelings about being ignored.
I answered.
Because of course I did.
I was in an altered state.
A pharmaceutical fugue.
The veil between dimensions was thin.
Who wouldn’t answer a phone call from the void?
THE VOICES
There were three of them.
Maybe four.
Possibly seven.
They all had names that sounded like law firms.
Brandon. Kendrick. Possibly a Stephanie.
They were talking about… metrics.
Synergy.
Deliverables.
Bandwidth.
That cursed word.
“Do we have the bandwidth for this, Orson?”
someone asked.
And I—
still tethered to the waking world by the thinnest thread of consciousness—
said:
“Bandwidth is a myth. We are all infinite.”
There was a pause.
A long one.
Someone coughed.
Then Brandon—or Kendrick, or the composite entity I now think of as “Brandrick”—said:
“Right. Well. Let’s circle back on that.”
THE AGENDA
They had an agenda.
I’m almost certain.
Seven items.
Or twelve.
Numbers were fluid.
But I remember—vividly—hearing:
“Item four: the pelican initiative.”
The pelican initiative.
I said, “What is that?”
And someone—Stephanie? The void itself?—said:
“You proposed it last quarter, Orson.”
I did not propose it.
I have never proposed anything involving pelicans.
I don’t even particularly *like* pelicans.
They’re unnerving.
But in that moment—
floating somewhere between sleep and a conference room I may have astral-projected into—
I said:
“Ah yes. The pelicans. How are they progressing?”
“Slowly,” said Brandrick.
“But with great intention,” added Possibly-Stephanie.
I nodded.
Even though no one could see me.
Even though I was in a hospital gown covered in tiny moons.
THE ACTION ITEMS
At some point, they assigned me tasks.
I know this because I *wrote them down.*
I found the paper later.
Crumpled in my jacket pocket.
In handwriting that looked like mine but… tilted.
Haunted.
The list said:
1. Follow up with the pelicans
1. Confirm the Tuesday slot
1. Realign the northeastern verticals
1. DO NOT FORGET THE BUTTER
That last one.
DO NOT FORGET THE BUTTER.
In all capitals.
Underlined three times.
I have no memory of why.
But I felt—deep in my soul—that this was critical.
That the butter was somehow load-bearing.
That without it, the entire structure would collapse.
THE AWAKENING
Eventually, the call ended.
Or I hung up.
Or I simply… ceased to be on it.
I drifted back to full consciousness.
The nurse asked if I was okay.
I said, “Did I just have a conference call?”
She blinked.
“You’ve been asleep for twenty minutes.”
“But my phone—”
I looked at it.
No recent calls.
No missed notifications.
Just my lock screen.
A photo of a sunset I don’t remember taking.
I laughed.
Relieved.
It was a dream.
A strange, corporate, pelican-filled dream.
And I went home.
Ate soup.
Watched Star Trek.
Forgot about it.
Three days later.
I got an email.
Subject line: Tuesday Slot - Confirmed
From: Brandon Kendrick (or possibly Kendrick Brandon—the name was blurred, like my brain refused to let me see it clearly).
The email said:
“Orson, thanks for confirming on the call. Tuesday at 2pm is locked in. See you then.”*
I stared at it.
Read it again.
And again.
I had confirmed nothing.
I had been unconscious.
I replied:
“I think there’s been a mistake.”
The response came immediately:
“No mistake. You were very clear. Looking forward to it.”
A week later.
A package arrived.
No return address.
Inside?
Butter.
European-style butter.
Wrapped in wax paper.
With a note:
“Per your request. - The Team”
I stood in my kitchen.
Holding butter I did not order.
From people I was no longer sure existed.
And I thought:
This is how it starts.
This is how reality unravels.
Tuesday came.
2 PM.
I was sitting on my couch, minding my own business, when—
My doorbell rang.
I opened it.
A man in a polo shirt.
Holding a clipboard.
He said, “Orson? Here for the site assessment.”
“The… what?”
“The northeastern verticals,” he said, as if this explained everything.
“You called about realignment.”
I had not called.
I had *dreamed* about calling.
Or… had I?
I stammered something.
He smiled.
A patient, professional smile.
The kind you give to someone who is clearly losing their grip.
“I’ll just take some measurements and be out of your way.”
And he did.
He measured my hallway.
Took photos of my walls.
Thanked me.
And left.
I stood there.
Paralyzed.
Haunted by the distinct possibility that I had—while unconscious—hired a contractor.
THE PELICANS
I haven’t heard about the pelicans yet.
But I know—
I know—
they’re coming.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not this week.
But somewhere, in some office, in some dimension adjacent to this one—
there is a meeting happening.
And someone is saying:
“Has anyone followed up with Orson about the pelican initiative?”
And someone else is saying:
“He’s been quiet. But he confirmed it on the call.”
And they’re all nodding.
Taking notes.
Moving forward.
With confidence.
With intention.
With pelicans.
THE CONCLUSION (OR LACK THEREOF)
So here I sit.
With butter I didn’t order.
A Tuesday appointment I don’t remember making.
And realigned northeastern verticals in a home that didn’t need realigning.
Was the call real?
I don’t know.
Does it matter?
Apparently not.
Because the consequences are real.
The butter is real.
The contractor was real.
And somewhere—
in a boardroom or a dream or the space between—
Brandrick and Possibly-Stephanie are checking off action items.
Nodding approvingly.
Saying:
“Orson really delivered this quarter.”
And I?
I’m just trying to figure out what to do with all this butter.
And preparing.
Preparing for the pelicans.
The Grocery Store DJ… Or… The Invisible Hand That Controls Your Produce Selection
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
There is a person.
Somewhere.
In a room you will never see.
Behind a door marked “Employees Only” or perhaps “Electrical” or—most ominously—“Manager.”
And this person…
*controls everything.*
Not through force.
Not through policy.
But through something far more insidious:
The playlist.
Yes, my friends.
The Grocery Store DJ.
The unseen maestro of the mundane.
The puppet master pulling strings made of… soft rock from 1987.
-----
I became aware of their existence gradually.
At first, I thought it was random.
Background noise.
Sonic wallpaper designed to keep you from focusing on the fact that bananas somehow cost more than gasoline.
But then…
I started noticing patterns.
On Tuesdays, there was always yacht rock.
Not some yacht rock.
Not occasionally.
Always.
Every single Tuesday.
Smooth. Breezy. Relentlessly coastal.
As if the store itself had decided:
“Today, we sail.”
I’d be standing there, comparing Greek yogurt options—
trying to determine if “triple-strained” was worth an extra dollar—
and suddenly I’d hear that unmistakable opening synthesizer.
You know the one.
The one that says: *“Put down your responsibilities and imagine you’re on a boat you don’t own.”
And I would.
I’d drift.
Forget why I came.
End up buying three kinds of hummus I didn’t need and a pineapple I would never cut.
-----
But Tuesdays were just the beginning.
Wednesdays?
Power ballads.
Every. Single. One.
The kind that make you believe in second chances.
In love.
In the structural integrity of denim jackets.
I once stood in the cereal aisle for eleven minutes—
not because I was choosing—
but because I was *feeling.*
A song came on.
One of those songs.
The ones that crescendo like emotional avalanches.
And I just… stood there.
Holding a box of Honey Nut Cheerios.
Tears in my eyes.
Thinking about choices I’d made.
Friendships I’d lost.
That one time in eighth grade when I didn’t speak up and Jennifer Kowalski moved to Michigan without knowing I existed.
All because the Grocery Store DJ decided—
on that particular Wednesday—
that I needed to feel something.
-----
Thursdays were aggressive.
Upbeat pop from the early 2000s.
The kind designed to make you move faster.
Buy more.
Consume with enthusiasm.
I’m convinced this was strategic.
Because Thursdays are when people prep for the weekend.
They’re stocking up.
Filling carts.
And the DJ knows—
oh, the DJ knows.
that if you hear the right tempo at the right moment,
you will absolutely buy that $14 cheese.
You will grab the fancy crackers.
You will convince yourself that *tonight is the night you finally use that fondue pot.*
It’s psychological warfare.
Sonic manipulation.
And I… I am defenseless.
-----
I started tracking it.
Keeping notes.
Because I am not a passive participant in my own grocery experience.
I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And if there is a system, I will *decode* it.
Here’s what I discovered:
Mondays: Melancholy indie folk. Songs about roads. About leaving. About coffee shops that no longer exist. It’s designed to make you feel reflective. Vulnerable. You’ll buy soup. You’ll buy bread. Comfort food for an aching soul.
Tuesdays: As established—yacht rock. Maximum escapism. You’re buying things you don’t need because you’re mentally in Cabo.
Wednesdays: Power ballads. Emotional purchases. Premium ice cream. Wine you can’t pronounce. Flowers for no reason.
Thursdays: High-energy pop. Fast shopping. Impulse buys. Suddenly you own three types of salsa and a magazine about outdoor grilling.
Fridays: Classic rock. Celebratory. You’re preparing for the weekend. The DJ wants you to feel *accomplished.* You buy steak. You buy beer. You buy charcoal even though you don’t have a grill.
Saturdays: Family-friendly hits. Nostalgic. Songs your parents liked. You’re shopping with kids or shopping like you *have* kids. You buy everything in bulk. Goldfish crackers. Juice boxes. A future you’re not sure you want but the music insists is inevitable.
Sundays: Gospel. Soft jazz. Reflective. You’re recovering. Repenting for Saturday. You buy kale. Sparkling water. Ingredients you’ll never use but make you feel virtuous.
-----
But here’s the thing.
The part that keeps me up at night.
I don’t know who the DJ is.
I’ve asked.
I’ve inquired—casually, of course—at the checkout.
“So… who picks the music?”
The cashier blinked at me.
“Corporate, I think?”
Corporate.
Corporate.
Do you understand the implications?
This isn’t one person.
This is a *system.*
A vast, unseen network of playlist architects.
Analysts studying shopping behavior.
Algorithms determining which song makes you buy more frozen pizza.
Focus groups debating whether instrumental jazz increases organic vegetable sales.
*(It does, apparently.)*
-----
I have never seen the Grocery Store DJ.
But I have felt their presence.
In every carefully timed fadeout.
In every strategic silence before the chorus.
They are there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Queuing up the next track.
And we—
we humble shoppers—
are merely dancers in their grand design.
-----
The other day, I was in the store.
Late afternoon.
The golden hour of grocery shopping when the store is nearly empty and the lighting feels almost kind.
And a song came on.
A quiet one.
Something I hadn’t heard in years.
It was soft.
Gentle.
Almost… apologetic.
And I realized:
The DJ was tired too.
We were both just trying to get through the day.
Them, behind their mysterious console.
Me, with my cart and my list and my perpetually optimistic belief that *this time* I wouldn’t forget the milk.
And in that moment—
I forgave them.
For the yacht rock.
For the emotional manipulation.
For making me cry in the cereal aisle.
Because the Grocery Store DJ isn’t a villain.
They’re an artist.
Working in a medium most people don’t even notice.
Crafting soundtracks for the most mundane moments of our lives.
And if they make us feel something—
even accidentally—
even while we’re just buying eggs—
well…
isn’t that the point?
-----
So here’s to you, Grocery Store DJ.
Wherever you are.
In your secret room.
With your mysterious playlist.
Thank you for the yacht rock.
Thank you for the tears.
Thank you for making me believe—
if only for four minutes and twenty-three seconds—
that my life has a soundtrack.
And it’s glorious.
The Maddening Myth of Market Research
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
Orson:
Gentlemen and ladies, esteemed listeners to the peculiar chronicles of Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld! It is I, your affable host, here tonight. No… not tonight. This being recorded, you understand.
I am often called verbose. Sometimes, "the verbose." Less frequently, perhaps with a touch more gravity, "verbose thespian." But lately, people have started saying: "Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld – he’s got the gravitas of an opera singer."
They’re not wrong! And they're also missing something vital.
You see, I am Orson. And my life is… well, it's a tapestry woven with threads of observation and occasional profound indignation. Today, we delve into a topic near and dear to my heart: the baffling phenomenon known as "market research."
But before we journey into that particular vortex of corporate euphemism… let us consider our own existence. We sit here, perhaps in a comfortable chair, listening to me speak – whether it be through the miracle of podcasting or simply reading these words.
And what do we understand? That my family... no, they are not so noble as that term implies. They operate with a certain… unspokendynamic, wouldn't you agree?
It began subtly. Very subtly. When did it start? Let's see… perhaps during the Great Retail Apocalypse of 1997 – Windows OS version, I believe is what we call it.
They'd say things like "market research." It was a shield behind which they could hide their questionable motives. A way to explain away receipts that should never have been scanned, coupons clipped without purpose, and seemingly innocuous surveys filled out with alarming thoroughness.
"It's just market research," my aunt would murmur while studying a chart she'd inexplicably produced from somewhere. It was as if the very concept of not understanding required justification!
And let us be clear about this, shall we? Market Research is not an excuse! It’s a smokescreen! A carefully crafted illusion designed to obscure reality and manipulate perception.
I remember one particular instance – perhaps 10 years ago now. We were discussing… well, let's just say it involved instant noodles for the masses. My uncle presented his findings from his "consumer engagement analysis."
He was meticulous! He had data points where common sense would merely be dots on a graph!
"I have," he declared, pointing dramatically at an Excel spreadsheet I now wish to forget, "discovered that brand loyalty correlates significantly with purchase intent!"
Which meant, of course – and here was where the true artistry lay – he could tell me his analysis showed people would pay more for a slightly inferior product if it were presented as 'premium'!
A classic case of misdirection! He’d wrap a simple truth in layers of jargon to confuse the listener. Or, more accurately… me.
It was my father who truly perfected this art of evasion. Not through words, but through sheer parental authority and baffling logic.
He would say things like "Questioning is good," or perhaps "Not understanding isn't a problem." It was always poorly explained!
"I'm just trying to keep you out of trouble," he’d add generously. But Orson, my friend – and now you reading this – I assure you! The trouble wasn’t the misunderstanding per se. The trouble was being told to simply accept it!
It reached its zenith one afternoon concerning… well, let's give a specific example. A discount on something utterly mundane.
They tried to explain why this particular item – say, a box of chocolates – cost less than usual. They offered graphs and statistics about customer acquisition!
"It’s part of our long-term investment strategy," my mother said brightly, holding up another receipt as if it were some sacred text.
And here lies the tragedy! I, young Orson, full of potential skepticism and a healthy dose of caution – which was perhaps overrepresented at that time – asked: Why?
The answer… delivered with a condescending smile? "Market research," they chirped.
It’s not just about the confusion, is it? It's about the deliberate pacing of information, creating an artificial fog that you simply must navigate through by accepting their convenient explanation!
And so I learned. I learned to listen more closely than usual. To dig beneath the surface language. Because if you accept "market research" without question, you have merely… failed.
I became a vigilante of truth! A critic disguised as curiosity!
So, the core issue is this persistent deception cloaked in corporate doublespeak. They use "market research" as a weapon! To confuse you into accepting flawed logic or half-truths.
They won't tell you outright what they want you to believe… because that would be too direct!
Instead, they offer convoluted justifications for price increases disguised as 'investment', discounts presented with false scarcity via carefully manipulated couponing programs, and the ever-present "exclusive access" through surveys – all justified by market research.
"It’s been proven," they say. "Through market research." Never asking you to question what that 'proof' actually looks like!
It's a testament to human gullibility, isn't it? Or perhaps… the result of very specific and calculated efforts.
Let us move beyond this particular phrase for a moment. What is the goal?
Is it efficiency? Comfort? Profitability?
Well, yes! But more importantly – is it control?
They want you to believe that understanding complex processes requires their guidance through jargon!
That frustration at poor explanations is simply part of your journey… not something they exploit!
Now, let’s take the specific example that truly crystallized this for me – because sometimes, you need a concrete instance to challenge an abstract concept.
It was about discounts. A seemingly generous discount on… well, it didn't matter what. The point is, they offered a 'deep discount' but explained it with utter obtuseness.
They wouldn’t say: "This item is cheap for a reason." Or even: "We're clearing this out."
Instead – listen carefully! This was the key part. They would declare that because of their… investment strategy (yes, they used another buzzword!), this particular product needed to be 'bought' now.
They’d present graphs showing declining demand if not purchased immediately!
"It’s a limited-time offer!" – Oh yes! They love that phrase. It creates urgency without basis, and it requires you to trust them implicitly on the time constraint.
And here’s where Orson really felt his oats: I knew exactly what they meant by "limited-time." They were just trying to confuse me into buying something I didn’t need at a 'good price'.
So I asked again! Not for an explanation, but because it was wrong. Because of their own poor communication!
This isn't just about the external world. This is personal.
My family – they are not inherently malicious actors in this grand deception. No! They operate with a different kind of malice: the malice of comfortable ignorance.
They saw my frustration as… well, perhaps it was their form of entertainment? A way to lull themselves into a false sense that I was finally understanding?
Let me clarify. Their explanations were often poorly delivered, yes. But the lack of clarity wasn't accidental.
They wanted me to accept things simply because they said so! With their carefully constructed confidence!
So, when faced with my questions about "market research" or 'limited-time discounts', they didn’t explain. They tried to… diffuse.
It was exhausting! It required constant vigilance. Constant skepticism. And it often felt like an uphill battle against a tide of convenient answers.
But let us not despair!
The lesson learned is this: Do not accept vague explanations. Do not nod politely when someone says "it's market research." Demand substance!
And if they cannot provide it, perhaps… maybe you can offer something different?
So there we have it. The core of my frustration isn’t just about specific things like discounts or surveys.
It’s a deeper thing. It’s the pervasive atmosphere where complex realities are draped in layers of jargon, euphemism, and carefully managed misunderstanding.
This is why I speak today! Why Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld continues his journey through everyday absurdity!
I believe that understanding – true understanding – requires clarity. And sometimes, we must challenge those who would offer us only fog and false confidence.
Thank you for listening to this verbose ramble from Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld. May your encounters with poorly explained phenomena be met by a healthy dose of skepticism!
I bid you farewell – until our next convenient moment, perhaps?
The Walgreens Funeral
And My Conquest of Grief Through Renewed Love for the CVS Across the Street
As chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I buried a Walgreens last week.
Not literally—though I would have, had zoning permitted.
No, this was the closing of my Walgreens.
The one where they knew my name.
Where the floor tiles squeaked only in A♭ minor.
Where the pharmacy tech with the hollow eyes could fill my prescription just by sighing.
It died quietly.
No grand clearance sale.
No coupon vigil.
Just a handwritten sign on the door:
"Store permanently closed. Please visit our nearest location two miles away."
Two miles?
Two miles may as well be two hundred
when you’ve built your life across a single intersection.
I stood at the locked doors,
gazing through the dusty glass,
past the gutted candy aisle and the abandoned cooler
where the Diet Squirts once shimmered like sacred relics.
In my mind, I saw the Walgreens as it was—
bright, humming, stocked with seasonal displays
no one asked for but everyone judged.
Easter candy in February.
Halloween in August.
Christmas the moment you stopped digesting turkey.
But loss does not linger in stasis.
It compels us to move.
And so I crossed the street.
To the CVS.
The CVS had always been there—
smaller, dimmer, smelling faintly of warm toner and disappointment.
Its self-checkouts were temperamental.
Its employees, aloof as minor royalty.
I had once sworn I would never defect.
But grief changes a man.
The first visit felt wrong.
I half-expected to be shunned,
to be marked as “Walgreens stock” by their scanners.
Instead… I was welcomed.
Not warmly. Not with fanfare.
But with a quiet, transactional acceptance.
The aisles were narrower.
The shelves taller.
It felt like walking into someone else’s house uninvited—
and realizing their fridge is better stocked than yours.
And over time—
I learned the ways of CVS.
Where they hid the good sodas.
How their clearance bin could be a portal to absurd treasure.
Why their receipt, unfolding like an ancient scroll,
was not a nuisance but a prophecy.
Weeks passed.
The Walgreens building stood empty.
A husk.
A tombstone in beige stucco.
One night, in a dream, I visited again.
But instead of fluorescent lights,
the inside glowed with a sunset.
The shelves were full.
The pharmacy tech smiled.
And when I woke,
I was holding a CVS ExtraCare card.
I have not forgotten my Walgreens.
I never will.
But I have learned that across the street,
under different branding,
with different quirks and different frustrations,
a man can rebuild.
A man can love again.
The Tale of The Endless Pizza Parlor
As chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
Somewhere, between strip mall and myth… there stands—still spinning—a place.
Maybe you glimpsed it in childhood.
Maybe only inside fevered memory.
Maybe on the fuzzy flicker of a forgotten CRT screen.
A pizza parlor.
But not just any parlor.
This one… never ended.
It wasn’t even supposed to be an eat-in anymore.
It was carryout.
But technically still had tables—
small Formica slabs, ringed with mismatched chairs…
remnants of long-gone dine-in glory.
Tables once hosting families, now cluttered with flyers, napkin dispensers…
traces of a concept learned, then abandoned.
It felt haunted—
a dining room with its people left behind.
And yet…
there was Skee-ball.
Ancient.
Rumbling.
Looping in a mechanical chant like a midway machine
abandoned when the carny left—for a smoke, or a cougar rendezvous—
While his kid skee-ed with wild abandon,
from the window…
to the wall.
That lane blazed bright.
Lit like prophecy.
Sang a warped hymn in every thunk.
No tickets. No prizes.
Just one child, pitching balls into oblivion,
pulling power from pure nostalgia.
Pizza appeared.
Unbidden.
Perfectly shaped.
Steaming.
Delivered by indifferent teens with names like Taco or Kaylee
faces glowing in the soft sodium light of concession stand mindlessness.
Animatronics stood lifeless in the corner.
A bear frozen mid-song.
A bird with one blinking eye.
A dog cast forever in clerical pose.
They hadn’t performed in years—
yet the hush of their music still echoed in the back rooms,
if you listened through your bones.
I followed rumors to find it.
A Chuck E. Cheese never franchised.
A ShowBiz trapped in Y2K.
A CeCe’s forgotten by time, waiting behind shuttered storefronts.
An old arcade token led me—
to a cul-de-sac near Des Moines.
There it stood, faintly lit, half-sunken in the parking lot.
Inside…
a child screamed in the ball pit.
A man slept.
A mother watched three different screens at once.
I realized: I’d found it.
The Endless Pizza Parlor.
I touched a booth once.
Closed my eyes.
And whispered:
“I remember.”
Then…
I woke in a CVS.
NyQuil sweat cooling on the back of my neck.
The ghost of pizza and arcades still lingering in my senses.
Somewhere—
that place still waits.
Box light waiting to flicker.
Pizza waiting to be delivered.
Children still throwing balls
just to see the lights dance again.
And play Skee-ball I did—again and again—
until dreams bent, the neon twisted, the memory cracked open.
Until I awoke in stuffy, NyQuil-fueled sweat,
nostalgia clinging to my pores.
It was time
for a Diet Squirt
and a Star Trek rerun
to anchor me back to reality.
And thus ends my pilgrimage… for now.
The Line Must be Drawn Here
By: Mason Absher
When I was growing up,
everything—everything—started with a line.
Not metaphorically.
I mean literal lines.
Chalked onto blacktops.
Formed outside classrooms.
Carved into the halls of public school buildings like tiny rituals of control.
You lined up for lunch.
You lined up for the bathroom.
You lined up to take standardized tests they swore would determine the course of your life.
And they’d say,
“This is good for you.
This teaches discipline.”
I believed them.
I thought lines were just part of the system.
Part of growing up.
You wait your turn.
You earn your spot.
Eventually, you get… something.
What, exactly?
Unclear.
That was the thing about growing up millennial.
You were told to wait.
For adulthood.
For stability.
For something called “real life” to begin.
But no one could tell you what that looked like.
Just that it was coming.
And you’d better be in line when it arrived.
We were raised by people who had no time for questions.
Boomers. Gen Xers. Coaches, teachers, neighbors.
People who liked authority.
People who clung to rules like they were holy text—
even when the rules made no sense anymore.
And when you asked why?
Why are we doing this?
They’d say,
“Because we had to.”
As if confusion were a rite of passage.
I was once told,
“You all think you’re entitled.”
And I remember thinking:
We didn’t crown ourselves.
You told us we were special.
You told us to dream big.
You gave us motivational posters and then
laughed when we quoted them back at you.
We were blamed for things we couldn’t control.
Housing markets.
Climate collapse.
Participation trophies we didn’t give ourselves.
They’d say,
“You have it easy.”
While handing us a world that was already cracked down the middle.
We didn’t inherit the system.
We inherited the aftermath.
And then the whiplash.
One minute:
“Why aren’t you more ambitious?”
Next minute:
“Why are you so anxious all the time?”
It’s like being handed a ticking clock and getting yelled at for flinching.
But here’s the part I think about now:
They weren’t all wrong.
They were just… scared.
They were scared the world was changing,
and we were learning to live in it faster than they could explain it.
They saw us breaking lines.
Skipping steps.
Questioning things they’d never dared to.
And they panicked.
So they told us to wait.
Told us to follow the process.
Told us to stand still
until someone called our name.
But no one ever did.
Because the line?
It wasn’t going anywhere.
And somewhere along the way,
we stopped waiting.
We started building.
Side hustles.
Art.
Businesses.
Communities.
Whole new languages for survival.
Because no one was coming to hand us anything.
So we made our own way.
No line.
No map.
Just each other.
SHOULD’VE BURNED THIS PLACE DOWN WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE
A Story of Early Fire, Quiet Questions, and the Slow Burn of Growing Up
By Mason Absher
I should’ve burned this place down when I had the chance.
And by “this place,” I mean my childhood home.
And by “had the chance,” I mean—
I was three years old,
and I threw a hand towel into a preheating oven.
Now, I don’t remember why.
Not exactly.
It wasn’t revenge.
It wasn’t science.
It wasn’t a cry for help.
I think I just wanted to see
what would happen
if soft met heat.
Three years old.
Tiny.
Curious.
Chaotic.
Wearing one of those zip-up footie pajamas
with the grip on the soles
so you could run toward disaster
with traction.
I’d seen adults put things in ovens before.
Casseroles.
Lasagnas.
Pans of stuff that always came out sad and steaming.
So I thought—
why not this?
A hand towel.
The ugly yellow one.
The one that always looked dirty,
even when it was clean.
It deserved to burn.
I opened the door.
Preheat setting humming.
Warmed air like a slow exhale.
I tossed it in like a chef plating vengeance.
Closed the door.
Walked away.
Now, you’d think an oven full of fire fabric would be a bigger deal.
But here’s the thing—
No one noticed.
Not at first.
Not when the smell started.
Not when the heat shifted.
Not until the kitchen was full of smoke
and my mother screamed like she’d discovered the concept of mortality.
They yanked open the oven.
Pulled the towel out with tongs.
Threw it in the sink.
Flames hissed.
Steam rose.
It looked like a murder scene from a Martha Stewart reboot.
And me?
Just standing there.
Holding a plastic truck.
Looking up.
Like—
“Oh. That’s what happens.”
They asked me why.
I said:
“I wanted to see what it would do.”
Which, honestly,
should’ve been the first clue
that I wasn’t going to be a normal adult.
But here’s the wild part.
They didn’t yell.
They didn’t punish.
They just—
cleaned it up.
Opened a window.
Gave me apple juice
and a warning glance
like “let’s never speak of this again.”
But I remember it.
Vividly.
Not the heat—
the possibility.
That I could do something
small
and simple
and change the temperature of a room.
I should’ve burned it all down when I had the chance.
Because I grew up.
And the fires got smaller.
Politer.
Internal.
No more hand towels.
Just quiet resentment.
Just anger managed by breathing techniques and sarcasm.
Now I light candles.
I simmer.
I reheat trauma in safe, microwaveable containers.
But there’s still a part of me—
that three-year-old in the grip-soled pajamas—
who remembers
how fast things can catch,
how satisfying it is to watch smoke rise,
and how sometimes,
it’s not destruction.
It’s just curiosity
with consequences.
Raised by a Cup of Coffee
Raised by a Cup of Coffee
by Mason Absher
Way back in the early aughts, the much anticipated transition from dial-up to broadband internet FINALLY allowed us to stream flash animations without waiting years for the video to buffer.
Sites like ebaumsworld, JibJab, and the ultimate show down of ultimate destiny were popping up everywhere.
One of my favorites was Homestarrunner dot net…it’s dot com. If you don’t understand that reference, go interrogate Jeeves for awhile. I’ll be still be here after you’ve finished your good cop, bad cop routine.
Like many millennials, I grew up in an awkward conservative evangelical area.
I was also dealing with a lot of undiagnosed or underdiagnosed neurodivergence and uncontextualized family trauma in the periphery of my life. This often meant I had a hard time connecting with other kids.
We occasionally went to church, but it seemed like my father found something new to dislike about each of them. I didn’t sleep well as a kid, so I usually didn’t like getting up early on a day I didn’t have school.
One summer we started going to this church that has a decent vacation Bible school program. The other kids seemed to find me tolerable and the activities are things I actually like. I think we even played Pokémon until it was discovered to use the sinful word “evolution” in a positive context. The local coalition of Moral Moms promptly confiscated our cards.
By some bizarre twist of fate, we still had access to a computer with high speed internet. In my previous church experiences, it seemed like other kids either wanted to try to find porn or listen to some garbage Christian band. I was pretty uncomfortable with both of those options. Also, I always seemed to get blamed for the porn. Never mind the fact that I spent the entire time pleading with the mouse keeper to navigate to a power rangers site instead.
Anyway…
At first, I thought this was going to follow the usual playbook. However, one of the main kids, a quiet but confidant ringleader type, sits down at the keyboard and types something into the browser. Immediately, I see MUST BE 18+ TO ENTER SITE. “Whoops. Typo” he says. I start thinking “he’s just checking the room to see if anyone is going to snitch and THEN start the porn”. Much to my pleasant surprise, he doesn’t. He just changes the website name by one letter and voila, homestarrunner.com blazes forth. “This is why Cheney leading the charge on tightening those pornography restrictions is so important” he says to me. I say “oh yeah that’s a great point” I had no patience for sex or politics by this point. There was a fresh, new, modern cartoon cued up and I couldn’t wait to get lost in the laughter.
Our ringleader points out that I’m new to the group so we should watch the intro. I’m thinking “oh no, nobody is going to want to watch the intro again” but it turns out everyone is excited to just watch the intro video again. A few swift clicks and we hear that iconic “everybody song”.
Eventually, we see this side character, Homsar. He’s best described as Homestar’s VERY Neurodivergent cousin. He says his classic phrase “I was raised by a cup of coffee.” I felt that.
In my house a cup of coffee, literally a cup of coffee, seemed to be the one consistent thing. My parents? Emotionally over-reactive and wildly inconsistent, but my father’s coffee cup was always there day after day full of hot black coffee at any given time of day. At times it felt like the coffee cup was my real father.
I also loved that the whole crew made Homsar feel at home, especially Homestar who was LITERALLY the star. He always knew how to keep Homsar welcome and included.
Sometimes the simplest thing can provide us a sense of stability. Sometimes we’re Homsar and we need a Homestar to help us out.