So, Friday night I decided to reward myself at the end of my difficult week by making myself a nice, if not entirely healthy, meal.
Little did I know how surreal the experience would get.
I started my shopping in the meat department. Steak? Nah. Chicken? Nope. Lamb? Hmm, very tempting. But no. Seafood? Ah,
now we’re onto something good. But what kind of seafood? Canned tuna? Make me puke. Jugged fish? Halibut? Followed by rat
cake, rat pie, or strawberry tart without so much rat in it? Nope.
No, crustaceans is what I crave. A nice boiled Maine lobster, I think. That’s just the ticket. With drawn butter. And lemon. With a
salad and baked potato. I’ll check the bakery for some artery-destroying dessert momentarily. First, a rendezvous with my
dearest fish-in-a-loverly-red-shell.
As I approached the seafood counter, I should have been more aware of my surroundings. I should have been listening. Had I
been, I would have heard the death knell of reason itself, the anguished cries of dying maths, and the wailing of logicians. Instead,
all I heard was the selfish (which, you will notice, rhymes with “shellfish”) cry of my gluttony screaming into my fevered brain,
“Hey, shrimp cocktail would make a mighty fine appetizer. Yum!”
I got the attention of the fish monger, who greeted me with all the rapt attention and enthusiasm of a puppy dog on prozac. Lots
and lots of prozac.
FM: Can I help you?
Me: Yes, I’d like a third of a pound of the large shrimp.
FM grabs a heaping handful of large shrimp. He does so with the alacrity of a jackrabbit in heat. And on prozac. Lots and lots of
prozac. I’m thinking, “Damn, my shopping dollar goes farther than I thought these days. That’s one metric fuckload of shrimp.”
FM then puts this very large bag of shrimp on the scale. Examining the readout, he grabs a few more shrimp and adds them to
the bag. Then a few more. Thinking that this is way more than I really want, I let my gaze wander to the scale’s readout,
wondering if we’re approaching a third of a pound. To my surprise, we’re already up to 0.650.
Me: Oh, I’m sorry. I only wanted a third of a pound.
FM: Yeah, I’m almost finished.
He grabs another handful from the case.
Me: No, I only wanted a third.
FM: (dighusted, like I’m some kind of moron) Yeah, that’s like, over half a pound, you know.
Me: No, one third. One Third. You have twice that much on there now.
FM: You said three quarters, right?
Me: No, I did not. I said one third. One. Third.
FM looks at me like a chicken looks at a joke.
Me. One. Third. One. Fargin’. Third.
FM: One third is like three quarters, right?
Me: (Vein explodes in forehead. Blood splatters all the way to frozen dinners aisle.)
FM: What’s “one third?”
Me: (Amazed that such stupidity is even possible) It’s equal to one third. One Damn Third, you fucking syphillitic ass-weasel!
OK, I didn’t actually say that last part. Never insult morons who handle your food. Then it dawned on me. I could use the decimal
system. Leonardo “Fibonacci” di Pisa would be proud of my use of a universal numbering system that has served the
international commerce community for so long.
Me: That’s 0.330. Half of 0.650, which you have on there now. Take away half.
I mentally patted myself on the back for my ingenuity in breaking down the language barrier between customer and idiotic lump of
flesh. I was wallowing in self-congratulation when I was surprised to see Mr. Human Calculator pile on even more shrimp.
Me: Noooooo! One Third! One Third! Take away half!
FM: But it’s not up to three quarters yet.
(Thus ends my rant. However, to satisfy your curiosity, a 1.5 pound lobster weighs exactly 1.05 pounds. I wasn’t about to argue
the point.)
