The messenger shoots back

Near the back of the pet store, where they keep the large bags of dog food, a man waves me over.

“Hey man, let me ask you something,” he says. “Do you think these bags are $49, like it says on the shelf, or are they $39 like it says on that sign?”

“Sorry, I don’t work here,” I say.

“I know you don’t work here. Just help me out, OK?”

I consider myself a helpful person, so I agree. I check the label on the shelf, then I check the sign. Only the label on the shelf references the product in question, whereas the sign’s copy references a different product. In all likelihood, the sign is out of place. I point this out, then offer my conclusion.

“The price is $49,” I say.

“That’s highway robbery!” the man says. “And the damn sign says $39!”

I agreed to help, but I didn’t sign on for a debate.

“OK, you’re right. I think the price is $39.”

“Are you sure?”

I am not sure. Actually, I am certain that’s the wrong price, but this feels like one of those shoot the messenger situations, and since I’m in no mood to be shot, metaphorically, I acquiesce and tell the man what he wants to hear.

“Yup, it’s $39.”

“Thank you!”

The man loads five bags of dog food into his cart.

I wander off to find food for our dog, Mortimer. All by myself, I locate the food, determine the correct price, and load it into my basket.

At the checkout line, I see my old friend from the back of the store. The cashier has some bad news for him: the dog food costs $49 per bag. I brace for an argument. But instead of arguing with the cashier or pointing out the confusing signage, which wasn’t all that confusing, the man turns on me.

“Hey man, you were wrong,” he says. “Totally wrong.”

His tone is a mix of anger, disgust, and disappointment. It’s as if I’ve somehow misled him into overpaying for dog food and then pocketed the difference. In his version of the story, I am the asshole. This I cannot abide. I want to tell the man that he should’ve asked a store employee, that my first answer was the right one, that he rejected my well-reasoned answer because he did not want to accept the facts of the situation, and that he has only himself to blame.

I want to say all of these things, but I am nervous. Also I’m wondering if there’s a larger metaphor in this whole dog food pricing kerfuffle, because it seems like there are a lot of people out there these days who prefer to shoot the messenger rather than face reality. And so with all of these things running through my mind, my brain misfires, and as is sometimes the case when the synapses are under pressure, what comes out is a burst of pop culture.

“You can’t handle the truth!” I bark at the man.

To my surprise, perhaps for the first time ever, a line of Sorkin dialogue ratchets down the drama. Without uttering another word, the man pays and hauls away his five bags of dog food.

“That was great,” the cashier tells me when it’s my turn at the register. “You should work here.”

Support Absurdist Acts of Journalism

The news is getting weirder and weirder. I believe that when the going gets weird, the weird turn semi-pro. To wit: I’ve eaten a burrito from the middle and found the courage to tell the truth about Courage Bagels. Now, it’s time for my next act of absurdist journalism: goat yoga.

What is goat yoga? It’s yoga with goats — duh. The plan is simple: combine my reporter skills with my yoga practice to blow the lid off of goat yoga. Is it legit, or is it for the birds?

A session of goat yoga costs $50. So far, the situation normie community has raised $32.50, thanks to generous contributions from

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Stick around and chat!

I ask, you answer (or not)

1. Can you handle the truth? Lie to me.

2. Is highway robbery worse than other robbery locations? Explain.

3. Should messengers start wearing bullet proof vests?

4. Favorite Aaron Sorkin movie?

5. Should I apply for a job at the pet store?