Brought to you by the phrase 'paper bag'
"Plastic or ...", his voice trailed off, as it always did. He couldn't bring himself to suggest the alternative. Customers rarely noticed his odd neurosis, or his shudder when they requested the brown receptacles instead of the lovely, creamy white darlings whose soft crinkling laughter evoked a tingling warmth in his nether-region and brought a twinkle to his delicate hazel eyes. What was the point? Petroleum or trees, he might as well ask them which they'd rather run out of first. He knew what he liked, he had five wrapped around his body under his clothes. Checking the clock, he counted the minutes till the meeting, when at last shame could be discarded. They crinkled (rustling was the appellation of their opponent, the horrible brown things), crinkled seductively They were pilfered from the corporate demon entity that nevertheless chained his soul. It made it better. He would offer to take the closing shifts, just because the store cleared out and sometimes, sometimes, he could get to the back-room where freshly cartons of his precious beloveds awaited him. He could see them in his dreams, he could taste them in his coffee, he could smell them in every flower he sniffed. He was an addict, and he knew it, but the Bagaholics Anonymous meetings were soooo boring! Plus, he was tired of being the only one there. After all, if he kept quiet and didn't hurt anyone, what was the harm? His shoulders sagged. After 4 grocery jobs in 4 months, the harm was to his wife and 3 kids, who despite extensive family therapy resolutely preferred paper. The myth of biodegradability - propaganda, he thought with pure hatred - was entrenched in their small brains. They didn't love him.
Gary, the supervisor walked slowly past his cashiers station again. He had been doing that more lately, he was suspicious, but he still hadn't found out.
