Yeah. There’s something to be said for snobbery in relation to dental products.
By simply backing down from my principles when purchasing dental floss earlier this week, I’d say I almost lost more than one of my teeth in nothing more than an attempt to take care of them. Before I go any further, I’d like to take this opportunity to remind everyone that nothing in life is certain, and that even your roll of dental floss can surprise you by running out at 11 pee em at night, leaving you in the position I’m about to elaborate on.
Now, I understand that foreign corner-store owners have their place in this world. (They’ll probably also be the only ones to have a place in this world post-apocalypse, considering the shit they manage deal with every day.) That place is to provide harassed, impatient people like myself with sub-standard products at ridiculous prices – all for sake of my saving a few minutes that will no doubt be spent watching HBO’s latest TV series. Oh, the ambition of my generation. There might also be a bag of Cheetos involved in this particular scenario at any given time, but let’s not tarry there for too long.
Now let’s step back for a second and look at the equation so far: Serious need for dental floss (OCD much?). Serious need for series watching. Convenient cornerstore. Sub-standard product. One would think I’d know better. Well, it did say ‘Made in Spain’. Whatcha gonna do? The Spaniards successfully colonised many countries when it was fashionable to do so. The pope was a Spaniard at some point. They play great football. They’re a pretty good-looking bunch. Of course I’m going to buy their dental floss. The packaging wasn’t too bad either. See?
you dirty bitch
I guess what I’m trying to say here is that this roll of floss turned out to be much like a party-girl-crackwhore. You find her in the strangest of places and you think ‘Shit. I’m going to live a little and try something new. Why the hell not?’ You go out, see what she’s about, and the next thing you know, you’re waking up the next morning with a sore bottom, cuts and bruises, and no wallet to speak of. You then think ‘I knew I should have gone with that sweater-and-pearls chick from down the road. The one my mum’s always trying to hook me up with.’ Sweater-and-pearls chick, in this case, being Oral B Satin floss, which I would have had to make a huge trek for.
I guess I should have a word with the store-owner about the company, er, products he keeps. And then maybe never go there again. Unless it’s for a big bag of Cheeto’s. The puffy ones.
