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<p>[QUOTE=&quot;gsimonel, post: 4247941, member: 82549&quot;]Panic buying has hit Ossining, NY! My wife just sent me out to buy a few items--cabbage, Triscuit crackers and some green scouring pads.</p><p><br /></p><p>It wasn&#039;t pretty.</p><p><br /></p><p>I went to C-Town first because they have good produce. Nothing particularly alarming there--shelves well stocked, everyone relatively relaxed, going about their business. Checkout lines a little longer than usual, but nothing alarming. Apropos of not much, C-Town caters mainly to the local Latino population. Maybe that&#039;s why they don&#039;t carry Triscuits or green scouring pads.</p><p><br /></p><p>So I drove across town to pick them up at Stop &#039;n&#039; Shop, where the brittle, white, BMW drivers all shop. Holy cow! I walk into the produce section, and the shelves are empty. Turn the corner: no meat! The aisles are jammed with people, some wearing surgical masks--do these people realize that everyone in that store is secretly hoping they get the virus?--running around, pushing their shopping carts into each other, not even trying to avoid the weak and fallen, many of whom are whimpering and curled up in fetal positions, desperately--and generally unsuccessfully--trying to protect vital organs.</p><p><br /></p><p>I know what I have to do: Triscuits and green scouring pads! I go into Rambo mode. I abandon my shopping cart, turning it sideways in the middle of the aisle in a fruitless attempt to slow down the competition. I tear through the canned soups toward the cleaning supplies. There&#039;s a frail, elderly woman standing in front of the scouring pads. I can see from a distance that there&#039;s only one box left. Is she going to grab it?</p><p><br /></p><p>I can&#039;t take the chance. I run up to the scouring pads, push her aside, grab the box and stuff it down my pants so that no one who saw me will try to take it from me. Suddenly, WHAM! She starts pounding me with her purse, calling me horrible names like &quot;rude&quot; and &quot;inconsiderate.&quot; I kick at her ankles and she falls to the floor. I&#039;m safe. Next, the cracker aisle!</p><p><br /></p><p>Here&#039;s where things get really sticky. There&#039;s this guy there, must be about 6&#039; 8&quot; tall, 250 pounds or so--probably a linebacker for the NY Giants--and he&#039;s just taken the last box of Triscuits off the shelf. Normally I would turn away, but today I can&#039;t: my adrenaline is already squirting out of my tear ducts, and I am going on pure amygdala energy. I knee him--never mind where; I&#039;m not proud of this--and as he doubles over I snatch the Triscuits from his hands and run. I run right out the doors without paying for anything.</p><p><br /></p><p>But I made it. I got home in one piece, triumphantly waving the cabbage, Triscuits and green scouring pads over my head--not easy to do--as my wife looks up from her book nonchalantly and wonders what all the fuss is about.</p><p><br /></p><p>I should probably go back to Stop &#039;n&#039; Shop and pay for the items I took. But not right away. I&#039;m worried that right now there&#039;s still this 6&#039;8&quot; linebacker storming through the store, knocking over shopping carts and shelves and shouting &quot;Where is he? Where is he?&quot;[/QUOTE]</p><p><br /></p>

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