Bulk shopping will improve your life

I’m not sure if I expect that everyone enjoyed Monday’s pickle picture as much as I did.  Admittedly, it probably seemed a little strange.  The truth of the thing, though, is that it amused me endlessly.  Of course, I’m notoriously easy to amuse.  You could drop me in the middle of nowhere with a pair of dice, a Hot Wheels car with flames on it, a pencil, and a holey gym sock and I’d be giggling to myself in no time while attempting to construct a psychic sock puppet with a graphite addiction and an appreciation for muscle cars.

Kind of like a home-made True Blood action figure.

So, anyway, yeah, the pickles were an easy decision.

You might wonder why exactly I have a picture of a gigantic jar of Kosher dills anyway.  I suppose the only response to that is, why not?  I mean, it was $4.  Even in current US money, that’s a sweet deal.  And who doesn’t love a huge dill, right?

Truth be told, the Puddinette and I took the kids on their very first excursion to Sam’s Club this weekend, and when I happened to see that big-ass jar of preserved cukes, I couldn’t help myself.  Half the reason I eat Jimmy John’s seven or eight times a week is because they sell whole pickles.  This is totally just good, and for a fraction of the cost.  Especially when you consider I no longer have to buy the extraneous sandwich to get access to the salty pickle goodness.

And, yes, I did say it was the first time my kids have been to Sam’s.  One might think that with a family the size of ours—which consumes food at the same rate as a population equivalent to that of South Dakota—the price club-style store would be a regular haunt for our grocery buying needs.

Surprisingly, that’s not the case.  For one thing, I bristle at the membership cost.  The theory is that to deserve such special prices you have pay a little extra to offset the company’s lesser profit.  But that’s a bunch of hogwash if you ask me.  The company has long-term bulk bargaining power with suppliers.  Good ole’ Sam is going to make the same deals regardless of whether or not he gets my regular (or plus, PLUS!) membership.  Which makes me think the membership fee is to, you know, keep out the undesirable element.  Kind of like a country club.

That’s right, I just related Sam’s Club to a country club.  If you’ve been to both, you obviously realize just how apt that comparison is.  It’s a lot like suggesting Larry Flynt and the Pope are previously-conjoined twins.

The other reason we don’t go there often is that, frankly, the Puddinette gets better deals elsewhere with her magic couponing savvy.  Even better, her skills don’t require the rental of a semi to tow home a 2-ton vat o’ name-brand mayo or that dumpster-sized box of Captain Crunch.  As an added bonus, when she brings home foodstuffs that aren’t specially packaged for the Giant of the Beanstalk, I don’t have to scratch my head for an hour while trying to complete the 3-D puzzle of fitting enough meat to operate an Outback Steakhouse for a fortnight into my 36 inch-wide kitchen freezer.

As an added bonus, we also tend to actually consume normal people-sized foods before they grow the sort of silvery frost mold that reminds me of the Magic Kingdom of the Wood Elves.  Then again, maybe more mold would lead to more Keebler goods in the pantry?  Would that be worth more Fudge Stripes?  I don’t know.

So why the trip to Sam’s on Sunday?  I found out it was Free! Trial! Membership! Weekend! and given the previously mentioned, impressive, and ever-accelerating consumption rate of food in la casa de Puddin, we figured we ought give it another try.  Maybe we could eat a gross of individual yogurt cups at this point.

While the kids were completely awed by the majesty of a three-story monument to bulk purchasing excess, and nearly wet themselves when they found out about the free preservative-laden microwaveable processed faux-foods offered by sweet little grannies every 20 feet, the Puddinette and I reinforced our earlier preconceptions.  There’s little there that you can’t find elsewhere at a better price if you look, and unless your last name is Duggar, a 50-lb bag of white rice is probably a bit much.

Of course, we did buy that jar of pickles.

As much for me as for you guys.

And I’m going to post a picture of every. last. one. of. them.

Pud’n

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