Letter From Milo: Mr. Hunter

February 25th, 2019

My children love their mother dearly, almost as much as they adore me. Next to me, their mother is the most important person in the world. I mean, what’s not to like about the lovely Mrs. Milo? She’s beautiful, charming, nurturing, a loving mother, in short, everything a child would want in a parent, and a husband in a wife.

There is one thing, however, that my daughters dislike about their mother. Dislike may actually be a poor choice of words. There is one thing Mrs. Milo does that the kids absolutely hate.

They hate when their mother does the grocery shopping. You, see, Mrs. Milo has an odd taste in food, probably instilled in her at an early age by her nutritionist father.

When Mrs. Milo goes grocery shopping, she stocks up on pasta, fish and skinless chicken breasts. Her grocery cart gets loaded with fresh vegetables, ripe fruit, freshly squeezed juices, whole grain breads, assorted soy products, low sodium and low sugar cookies, and other fat-free, low-carb, organically grown, chemical-free foodstuffs, all produced in non-communist countries.

When the children hear that their mother is going grocery shopping, they groan in misery. Their precious little hearts start fluttering and tears well up in their Bambi-like eyes. The way they act you’d think it was the worst thing that ever happened to them, worse even than having their cell phones confiscated or learning that they have to wear braces for another nine years.

“Daddy! Daddy! Mom’s going grocery shopping!”

“So?”

“Can’t you stop her?”

“Why would I want to stop her?”

“She never gets anything good. Can’t you do something? Daddy, please.”

“Now, now, children, your mother has every right to go grocery shopping. Every American has the inalienable right to shop. It says so right in the Constitution. I could be arrested if I tried to stop her.”

The truth is, the kids like it better when I do the grocery shopping. When I go out for groceries, I do it in style. I not only bring home the bacon, I also bring home the sugar, the starch, the grease and that squishy, tasteless petroleum by-product that passes for white bread. I bring home the chips, the cookies, the ice cream, the red meat and the soda.

I am “Da Man” when it comes to shit that’s not good for you.

I truly enjoy grocery shopping. Next to bookstores, taverns and the race track, grocery stores are my favorite places of business. I love pushing a cart down the narrow aisles of my local market. I visit every aisle, grabbing anything that catches my eye.

I especially enjoy the produce section, although I rarely buy the green stuff. The reason I enjoy the produce section is that I get a thrill watching women handle produce, especially cucumbers. Ah, but I digress.

When I come home from a shopping trip, the kids squeal with joy. They go through the shopping bags like they were opening presents on Christmas morning. It does my heart good to see the kids happy. I settle back in an easy chair, pour a glass of wine and congratulate myself on another job well done. After all, I’m the man of the house and, once again, I’ve succeeded in providing food for the family. I am Mr. Elemental. I have hunted and I have gathered. And I have paid for it all with my debit card.

Mrs. Milo, however, is not quite so pleased.

“Jesus, honey, you really brought home a lot of crap this time.”

“It’s all in the eye of the beholder, dear.”

“Couldn’t you have at least tried to get some stuff that’s healthy to eat?”

“Sweetheart, I believe I’ve covered at least two of the basic food groups.”

“Some of the junk you brought home doesn’t fit in any food group. In fact, I doubt it actually qualifies as food.”

“Now, now, dear, let’s not be so quick to point fingers. I did bring you a very nice bottle of Pinot Grigot.”

“You did? That was sweet and thoughtful of you.”

Milo is no fool.

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