My boss, Mr. Henderson, prides himself on his technological prowess. He declared last Monday, “This week, I conquer the enigma that is…online grocery shopping!” He envisioned a seamless, efficient experience, a digital cornucopia delivered right to his doorstep. Reality, however, had other plans.
His first hurdle was the website. “Barbara,” he muttered to his assistant, “this website is more labyrinthine than the Minotaur’s maze!” Barbara, ever patient, guided him through the initial steps. Then came the produce section. Mr. Henderson, staring at a picture of a suspiciously perfect avocado, asked, “How can I tell if it’s ripe through this screen? Should I…poke it through the internet?”
Tuesday was devoted to selecting his preferred brand of “artisanal” mustard. He spent a good hour comparing varieties based solely on their online descriptions, pausing to read customer reviews like they were ancient prophecies. “Five stars for the lingering notes of Dijon!” he exclaimed, utterly captivated.
Wednesday involved a near-meltdown over the delivery slot. “But my preferred time of 2:17 PM on Thursday is…unavailable?” He called the customer service hotline, where he engaged in a ten-minute argument about the philosophical implications of time-slot scarcity.
Thursday, the day of delivery, arrived with a nervous energy that was palpable. The doorbell chimed, and Mr. Henderson practically leaped to greet the delivery driver. He ripped open the box, only to stare, slack-jawed, at the contents.
Two dozen tins of artisanal mustard. Nothing else.
“Barbara,” he whispered, defeated, “I think I accidentally ordered a year’s supply of flavor.” His triumphant conquest of online grocery shopping had resulted in nothing but an overwhelming mustard surplus. And he still hadn’t managed to find a ripe avocado.
