Grocery Wars: The Carbs Strike Back

Imagine you’re attending the social event of the decade, where everyone who is anyone received an invitation. Famous actors, politicians, business titans, and even a few reality TV stars will be there. And, unfortunately for them, so will you. You received an invitation weeks ago, but it felt more like a subpoena. You know your attendance is mandatory, even though much of the A-list crowd wishes you had stayed far away. Once adored, you’ve now become the ultimate outcast, a traitor in their eyes.

And that, my friends, is exactly how grocery shopping feels for me these days.

I step into the store, and old friends like Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth glare at me as if I am Judas himself. Hungry Jack turns away in disgust, seeking comfort at the Log Cabin next door. I hurry around the corner to escape the look of betrayal in their eyes and dart into the cereal aisle.

Cap’n Crunch stands at attention, his sword gleaming under the fluorescent lights, ready to defend his sugary domain. Count Chocula bares his fangs, hissing through gritted chocolate teeth, and on an oatmeal box, a white-haired man in an old-fashioned black hat bows his head and publicly prays for my judgment and repentance. I mutter a hasty apology, but the condemnation only deepens.

I barely have time to process the judgmental stares before, without warning, a large Golden Retriever leaps from a display of baked beans, nearly bowling me over like a clumsy linebacker. My yelp echoes through the store, drawing laughter from Betty Crocker, Sara Lee, and Uncle Ben. One doubles over with laughter, another offers a smug, flour-dusted grin, and the last sighs heavily, as if to say, “You really should’ve stuck with rice, kid.”

A select few in this store still like me, and the commotion brings two running to my rescue. Jimmy Dean, with his signature cowboy swagger, and Oscar Mayer, brandishing his hot dog baton like a knight’s sword, rush over to shoo the dog away and call for backup. Enter Mr. Peanut, arriving with a flourish, tipping his top hat as if he’s about to perform a magic trick. He sets down his cane, pops in a monocle, and examines my wound with mock seriousness. “I didn’t expect you to be here today,” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But it’s good to see you coming out of your shell.” Leave it to a peanut to always deliver a punchline.

I decide it’s time to retreat and cut through the produce department. As I weave past the onions, tomatoes, and peppers, a familiar voice rings out, dripping with sarcasm. Between the Idaho Russets and the Yukon Golds, Mr. Potato Head sneers, sticking out his tongue with mock Don Rickles charm. “Well, well, look who finally rolled in,” he says, his voice full of playful disdain. “So, meathead, did you get lost on your way to the salad bar?”

I decide it’s best to ignore his taunts and make a break for the exit. Just when I think I’m in the clear, a commotion erupts from the nearby aisles. Marie Callender, the California Raisins, and Mr. Pibb are charging toward me, their faces twisted with carb-fueled rage. Before they can reach me, the Jack Link Sasquatch pounces into view, letting out a series of guttural growls and wild, menacing gestures that momentarily freeze them in their sugary tracks.

I seize the opportunity and bolt for the door, my eyes fixed on the glowing “Exit” sign. But in my panic, I don’t watch where I’m going. My foot slips on something slick, and I’m suddenly airborne, arms flailing like a cartoon character before I crash-land flat on my back with a thud that reverberates through the store. Even the canned goods seem to wince.

As I pick myself up with whatever dignity I have left, I glance back and see the culprit: a banana peel.

A tall, exotic-looking woman with a bowl of fruit balanced on her head stands nearby. She winks at me and says, “See you next week, keto boy.”