I’m at the grocery store and I’m trying to decide on what chips to grab. Cheesy? Crunchy? Kettle? Vinegar? Healthy? Screw it. I take my arm and just scoop them all up and as I’m feeling quite happy with my array of options, a man walks up and for some reason feels the need to give me nutritional facts about my bags of potato and corn machine cut munchies. I’m stunned at first and rather tongue tied as he’s carrying on about transfats, and the lethargy effect. Oh Holy Hell. I need an escape route. Where is a group of oversized, genetically modified apes ready to pounce when you need them?

If I’m not mistaken, this fool isn’t coming home with me, isn’t my boyfriend, isn’t my brother, and isn’t my son or uncle. I’m rather confused at why the hell he cares so much about whats in MY basket of delicious goodies. “Uh, sir, you must have me mistaken for someone else… does your wife look like me? Is she in another isle and you have some form of dementia that causes you to randomly attack unsuspecting snack hoarding single mothers with your torturous banter?” Well, I’m still standing here wishing I’d say something to get this junk food hater far, far away from me and I’m speechless. I know. Me. Never.

I glance around his shoulder-he’s carrying on with a quinoa liturgy- as if I’ve noticed the person I’ve come shopping with – There’s not. I came alone. A woman catches my gaze and quickly puts her head down and scants away. Great. Thanks sister. My hand is in the air giving a stuttering wave as this organic tomato is now looking at me quizzically. I, slowly, attempt to creep away and he starts to follow me. Holy Gluten Batman! I have an idea! Maybe if I put all my sodium-filled choices back on the shelf he will finally give up on this lost sugar cookie. Oh, but I so envisioned myself deep into a food coma before dawn. This King Arthur of saturated fat is far, far from the aisle of “get lost” where he needs to be with his round table of dried fruit and legumes. It is time to put an end to your dietary fiber legacy.

Wait a minute. He’s in MY isle. I had planned an evening of lustful endorsement full of artificial flavorings. This nut job is sucking the cheesy puff face stuffing challenge I was gearing up for and I can’t take any more of this peanut-free headache. I know what this guy is, he’s a suck nut! You and your intrusive Dr. Oz wannabe advisory label shanking!

There is only one way to end this. I hand him my card, thank him for his percent daily values run-down  and stare him dead in the eye. Reaching, hostilely for a bag of chocolate kisses and hold the bag near his face. I state that he would love my blog and should “hashtag suck nut” on Twitter. Toodles.

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