Found myself shopping in a part of town that I call, endearingly, Compton. Inside Albertson's, children outnumbered grown-ups fifteen to one. I myself don't mind children ... when they come with supervision. These children, however, had the etiquette of jackals.
One was eating from the cherry bin with her father. He had that sneaky O.J. look, too, as his daughter sifted through the cherries with those slimy red hands.
Meanwhile, at the Fuji apples, a six-year-old wiped his nose and then, same hand, played Tonka Truck in the display, where I found an apple WITH TEETH MARKS IN IT.
Suddenly I remembered how much I enjoy canned fruit. Of course, in Compton, parents probably poke holes in the cans and let their children suck the juice through straws.
We need a license to drive and to fish, but anyone, including Michael Jackson, is given to breed.
It was one of the few times I walked away from the store with a checklist:
- Avoid Compton -- check.
- Never eat another cherry for as long as I live -- check.
- Propose a leash law for children in supermarkets ... hmmm.
