Grocery Stores are now Adults Only.

The author, reading a dirty limerick to a group of nuns.

Having been out all day fighting crime as my alter ego, Super Fluous, I came home today to read a disturbing paragraph in the Wall Street Journal. To wit:

WASHINGTON—The Supreme Court ruled 6-3 Monday that the government may not deny registration to trademarks it deems “immoral or scandalous,” finding that the Patent and Trademark Office violated the First Amendment when it applied such criteria to brand names.

This might have flummoxed me, but I have trained myself in the ancient oriental art of Shver Nax to withstand the most lethal blows to my body and intellect. So I retired to my tablinum to mull things over, emerging several hours later resolved to ignore this latest sign of moral atrophy and persevere in living my life by the tenets I grew up with while working in my parents' bodega on Yancy Street during the Irish Potato Famine -- namely Winken, Blinken, and Nod.

Suddenly assailed by a host of borborygmi that could be heard all the way to Temple Square in Salt Lake City, I ransacked the fridge for something to soothe my famished frame. But a shoal of arctic piranha had apparently beaten me to the punch; they had stripped me of every meat product and byproduct, leaving behind very little but a bag of shredded lettuce turned autumnal brown. Also an elderly jar of Cheez Whiz bubbling with either probiotics or deadly toxins -- not having a spectrometer handy, I decided to take no chances and threw both items away. Time for a jaunt to Fresh Market, catty-corner to my apartment building -- where the whole produce department loves to see my pinched and scowling face as I slowly pick over the roma tomatoes in between frequent and drizzling sneezes

As the pneumatic glass doors slid open for me I noticed a strange and unfamiliar cachet to the place. First of all, they'd changed the big sign out front that read "WELCOME TO FRESH MARKET" to "X-RATED BAZAAR -- OUR KINKY IS ALWAYS RIPE."

 Okay . . . that's not weird . . . 

Then one of the cashiers sidled up to me. I had often chewed the fat with her before; talking casually about the weather or her son's Cub Scout projects. Now her baggy green pants and dark blouse were miraculously changed to a black negligee with a plunging neckline. And she had on stiletto high heels. 

"Hiya, big boy" she purred at me. "What kin I do fer ya?"

Her tone was so suggestive that my Adam's apple began bobbing like a navigation buoy in a stormy sea. 

"I need a few quickies -- uh, I mean I want to snack on you -- that is, I'm here for the specials" I gabbled witlessly, discombobulated by the fiery rouge on her cheeks and the smoldering desire in her bedroom eyes. "I gotta get some groceries, is all!" 

I fled from her, much like Joseph fled from Potiphar's importunate spouse, heading into the bakery. I staggered away from the glass display case after spotting some anatomically correct bismarcks and napoleons.

 Tottering down the aisles, as in a nightmare, I saw that Gerbers was now Grabbers -- with salacious artwork showing leering infants groping their own mothers.  Horlicks Malted Milk Powder is pronounced the same, but spelled differently. Chef Boyardee becomes Chef Boy-o-Boy, and the dirty old hash slinger is portrayed on the can in pursuit of a Gina Lollobrigida look-alike, his mustachios quivering with lust. I cannot bring myself to tell you what was on the Manwich can. Or on the CornNuts bag, either. Frito-Lay is now labeled in the past tense -- Frito-Laid. Borden has become Bordello. Reddi Wip is rebranded Reddi Willing and Able to Wip. Kraft has become Krafft-Ebing.  And what they've done to Mrs. Butterworth . . . 

I can't go on. Suffice it to say that the whole store is one lurid saturnalia of uncensored erotica. I managed to throw a few comestibles into a shopping cart and claw my way out of there, slutty store clerks clinging to my Hush Puppies while impudently asking if I am a Jiffy Pop or go Screaming Yellow Zonkers. 

I wonder where the nearest Farmer's Market is? 

"Makes about as much sense as dew on an iceberg"