Running out of my own shampoo yesterday morning, I was forced to use the “Botanical” shampoo acquired by my wife from the local Whole Foods organic grocery. Despite the name, it smells like pesticide, and I spent the rest of the day leaving a trail of stunned wildlife behind me, holding meetings with people carefully standing upwind.
My patience grows short with the entire Whole Foods brand, whose prices amply justify the nickname of “Your Whole Paycheck” and whose earnest staff regularly betray themselves to be helpless thralls to the worst excesses of crystal-worshipping new-age nonsense. After one recent spiel from some pimply ecology major about how Whole Foods was “in touch with the pure herbal wisdom of our Native American ancestors” I was moved to ask where they kept their pure, organic Native American tobacco. Did they stock this totemic element of indigenous culture? No.
My only reward was the po-faced outrage of a hippy whose worthless secular idols are mocked.
This morning I stole some of the kids’ shampoo instead. You’d be amazed how many people enjoy the smell of cherry on a man…
The wrong sort of Native American, yesterday. Put that pipe out and go stick a soup plate in your lip or something.