So I got hooked on these kettle cooked potatoe chips. Yeah, screw you; Dan Quayle was right! It is spelled potatoe, at least in this writeup, by God.

Anyway, they're much better than the stuff Lay's and Guy's and Tom's and whoever else makes. And this grocery store I go into a lot had a little display of kettle cooked chips. (Yeah, I could go to the hippie grocery store and get 'em, but they charge twice as much. Here's why, if you'd care to find out.)

So, the last time I go into this huge grocery store, there are no kettle chips. An aisle as long as a football field full of patatoe chips. And no kettle chips. I find the manager. (I always love it when I get pissed off enough about something to "find the manager." Especially when it's a big place, so you can watch all the peons scurrying around, whispering fervently to each other, "This guy wants to see THE MANAGER!.")

Well, he's all apologizing for not having what I want. So I say, "Here, walk with me for a minute." We walk over to the chip aisle, which appears to go on forever. I say, "That's a lot of chips, ain't it?" He agrees.

"You know what all those chips have in common?"


"Every fucking thing! There's no difference in any of them!"

So, I got it off my chest. But I really should have just walked away. Have you ever read about what sorts of wars go on for space on these supermarket shelves? It would make the Mafia blush.