Without pork in the refrigerator, I am nothing. I am a lesser man. Neighbors for miles around hear my wails of anguish and the gnashing of my teeth. There are piles of rent garments below my balcony from when I tear at my clothes in grief.
So, earlier this week I realized that I had nothing left but a bottle of Bacos leftover from last PorkDope. They’re vegetarian bacos, no less, but I was willing to convince my subconscious that they were still pork-based so I wouldn’t have to go through yet another wardrobe. Intent on remedying this egregious omission, I dutifully visited the neighborhood Rainbow Foods store.
Rainbow Foods is a believer in the ‘discount card’ method of grocery sales – mark up the prices, offer a card for ‘discounts’ that are mostly just the original price, and track the customer’s purchases for market research and organ harvesting lists. They don’t tell you about the organ harvesting on the form you sign, but you can see it in their eyes. And when the bagger was groping my kidneys. That was the other hint.
Regardless, I was determined to purchase pork no matter what the cost. I wandered to the meat department in the back of the store, and lo, before my eyes, I saw cheap meat.
Woohoo, my inner child shouted.
Bearing in mind Homer Simpson’s difficulties with cheap meat, I carefully checked for expiration dates, horseflies, or anything out of the ordinary. Nothing. No stench of death or decay, no cries of the damned. It was a good deal.
$2.99/lb for boneless pork shoulder roast, marked down to $1.49/lb with discount card. Success. Excelsior. The day’s hunt would be successful, and the omnipresent spectre of starvation would be kept at bay.
I noticed, however, that some of the fine selections of pork had been marked with a discounted price, and some had not. Specifically, the one that first caught my eye was still originally priced. I felt it best to flag down a nearby employee and verify that, indeed, the cheap meat was truly cheap.
Following is the dialogue as best I can recall:
“Excuse me, kind sir, but would you be able to assist me with this? This succulent pork is advertised at $1.49 per pound of sweet, sweet pigflesh, but only some of the packages are so marked. Will these ring correctly at the register?”
“You need the discount card for that,” came the insightful and incisive reply.
“Of course,” I replied. “I wouldn’t dream of anything else - it is my paramount goal in life to provide a faceless corporation with information about my purchasing habits. With that in mind, however, will these specific packages reflect the discounted price?” Well, maybe I didn’t say every single syllable, but basically, I said it. Basically.
“Yeah,” he said, putting my fears to rest.
My soul soaring, my feet lighter than air, I made my way to the registers at the front of the store, and placed several boneless pork shoulder roasts on the conveyor belt. Ranging in size from 1.23 lb to 2.01 lb, I knew that my freezer would be well stocked for time to come. Despite the fact that a few of the roasts did not have a discounted price on the sticker, I blissfully watched as the gentle and kind cashier scanned the pork.
The first package had no difficulties. Beep, and 1.42 lb slid down to the waiting end to be bagged. $4.24 followed by EASY-SAVE DISCOUNT -$2.12 appeared on the register, and with another beep, another package of pork continued its incredible journey, with an ultimate destination of my stomach.
Then the trouble began.
Beep, I heard, and the register merely displayed $5.20, with no EASY-SAVE DISCOUNT to brighten my day.
There was no discount.
That’s when I started to get mad. Visions of the building in flames went through my mind, which then filled my nose with the beautiful aroma of roast pork, which promptly brought me back to reality.
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, as the friendly cashier scanned the remaining pork. “But I think those should have been discounted too.”
“You need the discount card for that,” he mechanically replied. For the second time that day, I bit my tongue, and then explained that I do understand that, and in fact, he had just scanned my discount card not sixty seconds ago.
A blank stare was my response.
I looked around. The store was nearly empty, there was no one in line behind me, and I felt justified in defending this issue. I pointed at the pork, at the discount card, and at the advertisement flyer that someone had left nearby. “It’s supposed to be marked down.”
A glint of comprehension appeared in the cashier’s eyes. “I’ll need a manager to do that.”
“By all means,” I said, returning to my Happy Place in my mind, surrounded by pork, ham, and bacon, all from a wonderful, magical animal.
Moments later, a manager arrived. I handed her my discount card, and she re-scanned the card and the pork. “This is supposed to be discounted,” she noted.
You’d think so, I thought.
A moment’s wait, a few more pleasant beeps, and thirteen dollars later, I was the proud owner of pork.
Some people may say that this is an unhealthy obsession with meat. I prefer to consider it a fond appreciation, perhaps even a partnership. Pork and I have a symbiotic relationship.
And if someone tries to deny me my cheap pork, I will watch. I will observe. I will remember. Vengeance is mine, saith the lno. I shall repay.
Once I run out of pork.
