My former coworkers and I have been waxing philosophically on all manner of things over the past week. This picture of vintage supermarket butchers spawned the following diatribe from DJ:
Do you want to work for the Food-O-Mat? Because I kind of do. It’s the uniform. Chicks dig a man in uniform. Those were the days; when you could trust your butcher. You wanted a steak, you got a goddamn, corn-fed, natural raised cow slaughtered with love, gently carved up by Americans using American chainsaws, producing a piece of meat the butcher was happy to hand you and you were proud to serve your family. Shortly after this picture was taken I’m pretty sure Alice (the housekeeper from The Brady Bunch) started banging Mel the Butcher and suddenly the butcher was a star and too busy to take pride in his work. Eventually all the butchers were trying to bang housekeepers. With nobody around to keep the ranchers in check the quality of meat went down and the terrorists started winning. I’m not saying Alice and The Brady Bunch aided the terrorists or brought us into our current war, but they were there, man. They were there.