The Poboy Is Me

It is not news to anyone that the economy remains in poor shape. Something everyone will have observed is the general rise in the price of commodities. To speak of gas prices does not arouse my interest to any great degree, and not merely because I seldom buy gas. Everybody is talking about gas prices, and I don't make a point of doing what everyone has doing, as I have noted recently. What really makes the problem hit home is a much more insidious case of price inflation.

I have spoken of the pre-made cold cut sandwiches at my local grocery store and how much I love them. They are tasty, ready to go and ample. Rather, I might say, they used to be ample. It did not escape my notice that the stated volume of the sandwiches was seventeen ounces. Now, that's a big sandwich. They are often remarked upon by those who are not privy to them. They frequently made for two very filling meals, and I bought a lot of them.

I am far less inclined to buy the sandwiches these days, because the economy has claimed another victim to go along with the now concave-bottomed Dial soap bar. Yes, bury the rag deep in your face, for that seventeen ounce sandwich has now been reduced in volume to a mere fifteen ounces. A once-great foodstuff has been kneecapped as was the New York Times which it was shrunk in width, and of course I make that importance because the two things are capable of roughly equal impact on my life.

It's true that had I not pay attention to the label before, I probably would not have noticed the difference in the sandwich. Two ounces is difficult to detect if removed from an item of that size. Perhaps four ounces would escape notice, but is there justice in ignorance on my part when the grocery store deli knows very well what it's doing? I understand that a strike may take place among grocery store workers here, and if that's so them the sole silver lining could be that the scabs could be prevailed upon to restore the seventeen ouncer. One can only hope.