Someday, I want to meet the person who invented grocery store produce bags. Because that person should be building battleships and space shuttles.
You know what I'm talking about. Those rolls of whispy, thin, see through bags that are somehow more impervious than titanium. I've spent half an hour trying desperately to open one of those things.
First you try to follow the directions: "Open this end" with the helpful arrow.
Like restaurant bathrooms with posted step-by-step instructions explaining how to wash your hands, "open this end" seems pretty condescending. Until you find yourself having spend a lengthy period trying to open the other.
So you study the diagram carefully and "open this end."
Only that end doesn't open. Ever.
Paint peels off your house in a stuff breeze, the tread separated from your tires at 50 miles per hour, but no force on earth seems capable of separating the two sides of that miraculous bag.
You use all of your wiles and three years of high school physics. First you try to rub it loose with your fingertips. A couple hundred pounds of friction should defeat a thousandth of an ounce of plastic film, but no.
So now you try to use your fingernails to claw it open. But you could dig your way into Al Capone's vault easier than this. You could pick your fingers to nubs and that bag is not going to give up entry.
So now you resort to actions that you realize will make you look foolish, if not insane, to the other shoppers.
Namely, blowing on the end of the bag. The theory here is much like performing a "motorboat" on your loved one's belly button, although much, much less enjoyable. A powerful steam of air, like trying to blow out the candles on ten birthday cakes all at once, should, you would think, separate the stubborn plastic lips of that bag. But all it does is make small children in the store cry.
So, after you pass out from lack of oxygen, and are revived by a passing Boy Scout with a hankering for a CPR badge, your patience for conventional measures is gone. The oranges you've been trying to juggle throughout this ordeal have long since escaped one by one and rolled away under the asparagus counter. Your dignity has equally slipped asunder. Now you just want to punish the bag. You wad it up, try to rip it with your teeth and spike it on the floor like Gronk pulling in an under inflated pigskin.
You're in too deep now. You can't stop yourself. You wave the bag in the air desperately, twirling ballerina style up and down the aisles, with little old ladies running to get out of your path. You punch it, jump up and down on it, and use terminology on it that would make a sailor blush. You grab a lighter off the shelf and try to melt it, you grab a carpet knife and try to pry it open, while alarmed employees page security.
And still, the bag will not open.
My theory is that if man were supposed to eat healthy, someone, anyone would have designed a fresh produce bag that actually be used to bag stuff. An entire industry here has conspired to produce bags with no openings.
Fate is trying to tell you something, homeboy. Put that kale and those bananas down and back away slowly. Go get a big box of Ho-Hos, which come pre-wrapped, as nature intended. The stress you save should offset the calories.
Check out and flee as quickly as possible. With the bag they sack your groceries into, which, unlike the titanium little fruit bag, is made out of wet Kleenex and pixie dust and is shorter-lived than a middle school romance.
Before you make the door, one of the flimsy handles has ripped off, and you've had to make a circus catch to prevent your pickle jar from shattering all over the freshly-buffed floor. Now the bottom of the bag is slowly opening at the seam, and you're leaving a trail of Snickers bars, and the parking lot experience is like trying to wrestle a pack of feril cats around in Miley Cyrus' used tube top.
Frankly, I blame Michelle Obama and her school lunch police.
You can't be obese because the bags were fiendishly designed to hold no more than eight ounces of food. You burn more calories than the food provides, trying to fish all the stuff out from under the seats of the soccer dad van that fell out of the wounded bags in transit.
And they thought we'd never figure their plan out.
The solution here would seem to be a change in staff at the plastic engineering company. The guy who designed the tissue-paper grocery bag gets transferred to the fruit bag department. What he comes up with will fall open with upmost ease. And the fruit bag designer, well, she could create a grocery bag that could withstand a small nuclear warhead or at least a Trump rally stampede.
Rather than run this complex proposal past human resources, however, I've got another idea.
The bagless grocery store.
Just give the greeter a couple of twenties and eat all you can hold off the shelves. No bags headed to a landfill, no struggles, a heart burp and you're on your way. Alert the U.S. Patent Office. I think I'll call it a grocstaurant.