As I write this, my first official column of the new century and millennium, I will continue doing what I did for much of the last century and millennium: whining about things that are bothering me.
Today's topic: those stupid club cards that you need to get the sale prices at many major supermarkets.
In the old days (1996), the system was much simpler. The supermarkets would jack up prices on certain items, and then lower them in order to put them "on sale." The supermarkets would then make up spiffy, full-color sales inserts and put them in the Wednesday newspaper, for three reasons: first, to see how many trees they could wipe out; second, to give Jay Leno something to show on his "Headlines" segment when they screw up (like when they advertise something delicious like "pork- or chicken-flavored toilet paper"); and third, to tell customers what products they could buy that week without getting completely screwed. Customers would then go through the ads, sending the funny mistakes to NBC and lining their bird cages with whatever was left over.
But these days, the system is, to put it kindly, more evil. Supermarkets still have the ads advertising "soft or extra-crunchy tampons" jammed into the Wednesday newspaper, and they still have jacked-up prices. But now, in order to get the products at their lower advertised prices, you have to have a "club card." No card, and you pay the higher, fully-jacked prices.
This dilemma leads to several questions. First, why in the hell are they called "club cards?" This makes it sound like shopping at the grocery store is some exclusive experience, complete with secret code words needed in order to get lettuce. What a load of crap. The only club involved is the figurative one the supermarkets are using on their customers when they force people to get these stupid cards.
I simply refuse to shop at places that use these idiotic pieces of plastic. There are several reasons for this. One is that I don't think a freaking supermarket needs my name, address, phone number, e-mail address, shoe size and SAT scores in order for me to get 30 cents off a jar of mayonnaise. Now, let me just say that I am not one of those people who is paranoid about "Big Brother" (unless you're talking about that gawdawful CBS show) and all this information about me getting into the hands of Big Corporate Entities, like the Republican Party. I am too busy being paranoid about the monsters who live in my closet that bear an alarmingly striking resemblance to Björk. But that is a topic for another time.
Another reason I shun these cards is that I simply have no room in my life for these cards -- literally.
Friends of mine have often commented on the fact that my wallet is thicker than your average edition of the "Oxford English Dictionary." I know I am not the only person out there whose wallet is bursting at the seams with stuff, either.
How do I know? Overstuffed wallets were the topic of an episode of "Seinfeld" I saw once.
But that's not important right now. What is important is the fact that it would be physically impossible for me to put one more thing in my wallet right now without the billfold exploding into a horrific mess of credit cards, business cards, pictures, receipts, coupons and shopping lists from 1988. (No money, however, would be involved, because I am a journalist.)
Thus, my life is a nomadic existence, as I travel from street to street, avoiding club-card supermarkets, looking for those stores that don't require me to sign away my first born in order to get a can of Pepsi. But this is the world of the 21st century, and I have no choice but to live in it.
But I am getting a more and more worried every day, because one of those Björk monsters, I could swear, was holding a red Safeway Card the last time I saw it. And that can't be a good sign.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who is proud of the fact that he was able to say "Björk" and "Oxford English Dictionary" within 60 words of each other. His column appears here Tuesdays, and a column archive may be viewed at JimmyBoegle.com.