He’s building a meat fort, which will probably be at least as effective as all the toilet-paper forts.
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He’s having a neighbourhood barbecue - we’re ALL invited!
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Could it be this?
(not to be confused with avoidant personality disorder, which can be mislabled as antisocial behaviour)
It’s not a diagnosis that I would want to be stuck with, so maybe all these people who suddenly have “mental disorders” when they are caught doing something shitty might want to reconsider their actions before it becomes a problem.
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My parents went in on a cow with our next-door neighbors one year. It was a glorious steak-filled summer.
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Not to defend these two, by why did the store allow it in the first place? How could no one there comprehend it was a bad idea to let two people hoard their entire meat selection.
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Here I am feeling guilty for buying non-essential things on amazon: a Dog Man book for my son and a battery for the spare car remote.
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It’s nice if you have access. And we’ve done just that in the past. But most such places do not ship, and no one should be driving 300 miles to visit a farm right now. It’s also a very large outlay of money, the last 1/4 share of a cow we got was ~$600 and it filled the bulk of that chest freezer. Mostly in the form of ground beef. It helps if you can butcher yourself, the butchering job from many farms is not great most non-steak or roast cuts simply being ground as a matter of course. So aside from a decent chunk of money on hand the whole shebang requires SPACE.
So again. Nice if you can, but not every one can make it work or afford to do it.
Additionally the farms by me are not currently selling whole animals or shares, I’ve been looking into getting a whole sheep. Been getting noes. Some don’t do it in general, most are holding off because of record high demand for individual cuts.
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Maybe the store normally refills those shelves every hour, and had plenty more in the back.
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A Hutterite colony near here will sell you one, but they don’t have a government licence to kill or butcher it.
And they’re near you. Again not a good idea to go driving across state lines right now.
Besides if I’m figuring out my own slaughter I can just sheep-nap one from a neighbor.
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Murph and Sully drive to the Cape Ann Market out on Route 127 and begin stalking up and down the aisles throwing food into their carts by the armful. They grab fifty loaves of bread, enough to fill two carts. They take a hundred pounds of potatoes, thirty pounds of onions, twenty-five gallons of milk, eighty-dollar racks of steak. Every time they fill a cart they push it to the back of the store and get another one. The herd of carts starts to grow—ten, fifteen, twenty carts—and people stare nervously and get out of the way. Murph and Sully grab anything they want and lots of it: ice cream sandwiches, Hostess cupcakes, bacon and eggs, creamy peanut butter, porterhouse steaks, chocolate-coated cereal, spaghetti, lasagna, frozen pizza. They get top-of-the-line food and the only thing they don’t get is fish. Finally they get thirty cartons of cigarettes—enough to fill a whole cart—and round their carts up like so many stainless steel cattle. The store opens two cash registers especially for them, and it takes half an hour to ring them through. The total nearly cleans Sully out; he pays while Murph backs the truck up to a loading dock, and they heave the food on and then drive it down to Rose’s wharf. Bag by bag, they carry $4,000 worth of groceries down into the fish hold of the Andrea Gail.
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“I love to smoke and I love red meat and I only eat red meat that comes from COWS that smoke…”
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“Sorry” is Canadian for “Yes, I know you don’t like it, but tough shit.”
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I mean with a store policy, which is almost everywhere now.
But of course, putting that responsibility in the hands of the same clerks that allow 75 items in the express line, is probably not going to work against these aggressive kinds of people.
Bless your heart.
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I’m sorry you feel that way.
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Fortunately, some stores are. I took my life into my hands this afternoon to get a few odds and ends [ETA: at the local supermarket], and they were mostly well-stocked, except for (naturally) paper towels and toilet paper. There were signs all over the store with purchase limits for those, plus bottled water and bleach.
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I’m just old enough to remember when small towns had refrigerated meat lockers that could be rented for storage as well, if you didn’t have space (or way way back when, electricity), for your own deep freeze.
In particular, the little northeast Missouri town where my mom’s folks lived had such a facility, and there was one a couple of towns away from me, that closed a decade or so before suburban sprawl caught up with it.
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This is just like that O. Henry story where the couple ate two shopping trolley’s worth of meat and became so constipated that they never got to use their three vanloads of toilet paper.
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This was the winning strategy in a 1960s game show called Supermarket Sweep. I think they changed the rules for later revivals. Or maybe not:
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