Shopping, Delivery, and Grocery Jokes

I went to Costco for milk. I left with milk, a kayak, and a 75-inch TV. The milk was the only thing on the list.

The $1.50 hot dog and soda combo has not changed price since 1985. My rent has.

I walked into Costco with $40 and a plan. I walked out with $400 and a rotisserie chicken.

The Costco rotisserie chicken is $4.99 because if it ever hits $5.00, civilization ends.

My cart at Costco has a 48-pack of paper towels, a 96-pack of toilet paper, and a single cantaloupe. I did not plan any of it.

The greeter checked my membership card like it was a passport at a border crossing. It is, basically.

The receipt checker at the exit drew a line on my receipt with the focus of a surgeon. I passed inspection.

I ate the sample, made eye contact with the lady, took a second sample, and pretended it was for my wife. I do not have a wife with me.

11:45 a.m. at Costco is when the sample carts come out. 11:46 a.m. is when the lap starts.

I told my wife I was going to Costco for one thing. She handed me a flatbed cart on my way out the door.

I bought a 5-pound wheel of cheese at Costco. I live alone.

The 3-gallon jar of mayonnaise made sense in the aisle. It does not make sense in my refrigerator.

I bought a 24-pack of socks at Costco. I now own socks until 2041.

Nobody walks into Costco intending to buy a kayak. Everybody walks out of Costco having considered the kayak.

The patio set was an impulse buy. It is now wedged in the back seat of a sedan.

I bought a generator at Costco because it was on sale. I live in an apartment.

The 75-inch TV fit in the cart. It did not fit through the front door.

I went to the Costco optical center for an eye exam. I left with a year supply of contacts and a new pair of sunglasses I did not need.

The pharmacy line at Costco moves at the speed of plate tectonics. The drugs are cheap, so I wait.

The tire center said the wait was two hours. It was four. The tires were free.

The Costco photo center is technically still open. Nobody has used it since 2014.

The food court line wraps around the building. I joined it anyway. It was a $1.50 hot dog.

I finished my soda, walked back to the dispenser for a free refill, and walked back to my table like I had outsmarted the system. I had.

Costco has kept the rotisserie chicken at $4.99 since 2009. This is the only stable thing in my life.

The Kirkland Signature golf balls are made by Titleist. The Kirkland Signature batteries are made by Duracell. The Kirkland Signature Kirkland is made by Kirkland.

I bought Kirkland Signature bourbon for $19. It won an award. The bottle of $60 bourbon next to it did not.

The executive membership refund check arrived in February. It was $312. I immediately spent it at Costco.

I did the math on whether to upgrade to executive membership. The math always says yes. The math is doing Costco's work.

It is August. The seasonal aisle has Christmas trees. It is fine.

The Costco parking lot on a Saturday is a Tetris game with no win state.

I watched a woman put a single cantaloupe in a cart the size of a sedan. I respected her restraint.

The man in front of me at checkout had 14 cases of LaCroix and nothing else. No judgment. Only questions.

The parent at Costco buying a 96-count box of granola bars knows something the rest of us do not.

There was a small dog in the child seat of a cart. The dog had a membership card. I did not ask.

The receipt checker found one item on my receipt and one item in my cart that did not match. It was a 12-pack of socks. I surrendered.

My Costco membership auto-renewed on a Tuesday at 3 a.m. I did not consent. I also did not cancel.

My husband went to Costco for batteries. He came home with a pallet of bottled water and no batteries.

My kid has been on a sample-only diet for three Saturdays in a row. He is thriving.

The 24-pack of muffins from Costco goes stale on day four. I eat them on days five through nine anyway.

The Kirkland croissants are gone by Sunday morning. We bought twelve on Saturday afternoon.

I bought a 5-pound tub of peanuts at Costco. I am not a baseball stadium.

I came home from Costco and discovered my freezer was full before I had unloaded the car.

I bought a chest freezer to hold the Costco haul. The chest freezer was bought at Costco.

There is an inflatable boat at Costco. It is $400. I do not live near water.

The Vitamix at Costco comes with attachments I do not understand. I bought it anyway.

I stood next to the Dyson display for fifteen minutes pretending to consider it. I was just resting my feet.

A woman tested every massage chair in the row. She was not buying one. She was just enjoying her Saturday.

The man at the membership desk said he just wanted to buy one thing. The employee laughed for a full minute.

We went to Costco on Saturday for the week. We went back on Sunday for what we forgot.

The Costco gas line is fifteen cars long. I joined it. The gas was eight cents cheaper. Worth it.

Costco does not have aisle signs. Costco does not need aisle signs. If you knew where it was last time, it is in a different place now.

The bakery at Costco sells a cake that feeds 48 people. I bought one for a birthday party of six.

I picked up a single bottle of olive oil at Costco. It was 3 liters.

The cart at Costco is big enough to sleep in. I have considered it.

The forklifts at Costco operate during business hours. This is not a warehouse pretending to be a store. It is a warehouse.

I went to Costco on a Tuesday at 10 a.m. like a person with a job who took a sick day. I saw three people I knew.

The book table at Costco is the last unaffiliated bookstore in America.

The clothing section at Costco is just dropped on tables. I bought three shirts that fit by accident.

I went to Costco for one thing. I cannot remember what it was. I bought everything else.

The $1.50 hot dog is not a loss leader. It is a love letter.

The delivery photo arrived. It is a porch. It is not my porch. I do not recognize the welcome mat. I have questions.

The photo confirmation showed a porch in what I am pretty sure was a different city. The lighting was wrong. The trees were wrong. The state was wrong.

Amazon says my package was delivered. Amazon's photo proves it. The photo is of a stranger's life.

The porch pirate did not steal my package. The porch pirate is the algorithm that picked the wrong porch.

Marked delivered. Not delivered. We have all been here. We will all be here again next Tuesday.

Out for delivery at 6 a.m. Delivered at 11:47 p.m. The driver lived a whole life out there.

Same-day delivery was an aspiration. It became a next-day delivery. It is now a Thursday.

I paid for next-day. It arrived in two days. Amazon refunded me with a smile I could feel through the screen.

Two-day Prime shipping arrived on day seven. Prime stands for approximately, eventually.

The email said we're sorry your package has been delayed. I appreciate the apology. I would have preferred the package.

Status: Package is being prepared for shipment. It has been being prepared for four days. What are they doing to it.

The package shipped. Then nothing. Five full days of tracking silence. Like it joined a witness protection program.

The box arrived. The box contained the wrong item. The wrong item was for someone in another state who is currently opening my thing.

Ordered a phone charger. Received a single sock. The sock had no reviews to verify.

Ordered a USB cable. Received a refrigerator-sized box containing one USB cable taped to a corner like a hostage.

The box was 90 percent air. The air came with its own packaging slip.

The air pillow padding had fused into one long sausage. I am not unpacking. I am performing surgery.

Some packages still arrive wrapped in that crinkly brown paper from 1998. Like a small archaeological surprise.

The bubble wrap is now compostable. It does not pop. A small joy has died.

I ordered a six-pack. It arrived as three boxes on three different days. Logistics as performance art.

I ordered a ten-pack of paper towels. Five boxes. Five tracking numbers. Five separate photos of my porch.

Subscribe and Save sounded clever in 2017. I now own 14 bottles of dish soap.

I forgot to cancel Subscribe and Save. I have enough toothpaste to outlive the cat.

The first three search results are sponsored. The fourth is the thing I searched for, sort of.

The sponsored result is for an entirely different product that shares one word with my query. The word is the.

Ships from a warehouse in a place I cannot pronounce. Returns to a P.O. box that does not exist.

The seller has 4 stars. Across 30 reviews. All five-word reviews. All posted in the same week.

Two listings. Identical product. Different seller names. The names are just consonants.

The Prime badge says Prime. The delivery date says five business days. Prime is now a vibe.

The brand is QXLNTR. It has 12,000 reviews. It cannot possibly be a real company.

I trust QXLNTR more than I trust the household name. QXLNTR has nothing to lose.

There is always one 1-star review that is the only honest one. It tells me what the product actually is.

The 5-star reviews are from accounts created last Tuesday. All named like license plates.

The reviews from before 2018 are useful. The reviews from after 2018 are sponsored gratitude.

The listing started as a phone case. It is now a blender. Same 9,000 reviews. None about blending.

I am reading reviews of an air fryer that used to be a vacuum. The category change was a stealth promotion.

Seller-fulfilled returns require me to drive the item to a different state, on my schedule, in their packaging.

The prepaid return label costs $14.99 deducted from my refund. The shipping was free in only one direction.

Drop off at any UPS Store. The nearest one closed in 2021. The map still lists it.

Drop off at Kohl's. I have not been to a Kohl's since the order. I am about to become a Kohl's regular.

Drop off at Whole Foods. While I am there, I will spend $74 on three items I did not need.

The return required the original packaging. The original packaging was 90 percent air pillows. I have been hoarding them.

The return did not require the original packaging. I had already kept the original packaging for six weeks just in case.

The refund landed the day before the return arrived at the warehouse. Amazon trusts me more than I trust myself.

The customer service chat opened with a script. I responded with a question. The script repeated.

The chat escalated me to a person. The person escalated me to a different script. The script had the same apologies.

Alexa heard the TV. Alexa ordered 47 dog biscuits. We do not have a dog.

The four-year-old said paw patrol toy out loud. Three boxes arrived on Friday.

The recurring delivery came on a Saturday instead of a Tuesday. The whole week has now collapsed.

The Amazon van is blocking the driveway. It will block it for 11 more minutes. I have studied this.

The delivery person waved at the camera. I felt seen. Then I noticed the box was at the wrong door.

The driver put the box behind the planter. Cleverly hidden from me. Perfectly visible from the street.

Leave-at-door instructions said porch. The box is in the rain. The rain is also on the porch, technically.

Do-not-leave-at-door instructions said do not leave at door. The box is at the door. The door is offended.

The dog grabbed the package before I did. The package is now upstairs. We negotiate from a position of weakness.

Cereal is $9 a box. I told the kids breakfast is now a special-occasion meal.

A dozen eggs is $4. I keep one in the safe and the other eleven in the fridge.

Eggs went to $6. I asked the cashier if the chicken signed an NDA.

Eggs hit $7. I started referring to the carton as a portfolio.

The chip bag is half air, half chips, and one hundred percent the same price.

I opened the cereal box and it sounded like a maraca with one bean in it.

The candy bar got smaller. I think it's training for a marathon.

The Oreo shrunk. Now the filling has more confidence.

The cracker box is the same size as last year. The crackers inside are at a conference somewhere.

Orange juice is 52 ounces now, not 64. I am paying for the missing twelve in emotional damage.

Ice cream is 1.5 quarts now. The half-gallon is a memory I share with my parents.

The price stayed the same, but the bag now fits in my pocket. So that's a bonus, I guess.

The self-checkout would not accept the price of the avocado. I think it was protesting too.

Unexpected item in bagging area. The unexpected item is my dignity.

The self-checkout queue is longer than the cashier queue. We have collectively forgotten what the cashier is for.

Lunch for four was $80. We had sandwiches. From the deli case. Pre-made.

The receipt is as long as my leg. I had to fold it twice to fit in my wallet.

I now check the cart total before checkout the way I check my bank balance before a flight.

I abandoned a cart in aisle nine. I told myself I forgot something at home. I did not forget anything.

The produce is priced by weight. I am priced by panic.

I picked up a pepper, looked at the sticker, and said out loud, I just bought this last week.

An avocado is over $2. I now eat it with a small spoon and respect.

There is a cilantro shortage. My salsa is a personality crisis.

Lettuce went up. I told the family we are doing crouton-forward salads now.

The egg shortage hit. I started rationing them like a war movie.

The chicken-tender shortage is real. I had to explain to a child that the freezer has lost its mind.

I walked in for milk and grabbed a basket, not a cart. The basket strap cut my hand on the way out.

I did not need this. I am carrying it to checkout anyway. The store has won.

I need this. The store knows I need this. The price reflects that the store knows.

I switched from brand-name to store-brand and the box looks at me with such pity.

The off-brand cereal is fine. It is the same cereal in a sadder font.

The off-brand pop tarts are called Toaster Pastries because legal will not let them dream.

The off-brand cookies are actually better. I will never admit this in public.

I clipped coupons for forty minutes and saved $1.20. My hourly rate is a tragedy.

I clipped the coupons. I left the coupons on the kitchen counter. The counter saved $1.20.

The rewards card was declined for being out of date. I have aged out of savings.

The app coupon requires opening the app, signing in, accepting cookies, and locating the offer. The egg is now cold.

Limit two per customer. I came back as a different customer.

The cashier looked at me, looked at the four boxes, and said the sign said two. I am not above that fight.

I did the cost-per-pound math in my head and made a small noise the produce manager pretended not to hear.

The cashier asked if everything is ok. I said I am just looking at the receipt. She nodded like a therapist.

The receipt has a Savings This Trip line. The line does not match the feeling in my chest.

The farmer's market on Saturday is somehow still cheaper. I drive past three grocery stores to get there.

The headline says inflation cooled. The cart says the headline has not been to a store recently.

I told my partner the receipt is a love letter. She said it reads more like a ransom note.