For A Klondike Bar, I'd do significant research ahead of time. I would check the average price, account for statistical variances, and tack on expected sales tax for my geographical area. I'd confirm packaging and quantities. Could I buy just one, or would I need a package of six? And if bought in bulk, assuming that was an option, would my expected rate of consumption exceed the rate of freezer-burn so that nothing would be wasted and I'd actually receive a better deal?
Once I'd researched my purchase options, I'd consult my monthly budget to see if my net wages were sufficient to provide shelter for my family, pay our utility bills, and purchase enough supermarket product to provide each family member three balanced meals a day.
If not, I would seek a higher paying job or explore student loans and additional education to meet the growing demands of the twenty-first century job market. Once my salary was Klondike Bar-worthy, I would still account for a small quantity of spending money in case my wife and I found ourselves spontaneously wishing for a date night.
If, after meeting my budgetary needs, I had the funds to purchase a Klondike bar at the price and quantity suggested by my research, I would then add it to my grocery list and wait for an opportune time for a full shopping trip. I mean, think about it – going to the supermarket for a Klondike Bar is silly.
Once at the grocery store, I would go from aisle to aisle, covering all my bases. I would not rush to frozen foods. I would place products in my cart in the order I found them, but would pay special attention to Klondike Bars, written three items from the top of my shopping list.
Once I found them, I would make sure they were competitively priced. Any unexpected variances would be cause to recheck my budget to insure Klondike Bars were still an appropriate purchase. I would then place them in my cart next to other frozen foods so that minimal thermal energy would be transferred from warmer objects, decreasing their probability of melting before arriving home.
When I came to the register, I would place the Klondike Bars last on the conveyor, alongside any loaves of bread, so they would not be crushed by cereal boxes or bananas (I buy a whole lot of those).
If my local supermarket employed baggers, I would monitor their bagging strategies and give appropriate suggestions, if necessary, to ensure a safe, comfortable vessel for Klondike transport.
I would travel home carefully without jostling the bags. The chocolate covering of a Klondike Bar is particularly susceptible to bludgeoning, a common grocery bag disaster. I would walk with a buffer zone of no less than five feet in all directions to prevent the bags from banging into nearby people or objects.
When I got home, I would put away the Klondike Bars first to help them re-harden while I put away everything else. Then I would offer a Klondike Bar to my son, who would decline because he doesn't like cold things. Then I would offer one to my wife, and say something clever, like, "What would YOU do for a Klondike Bar, sweetheart?"
She would answer, "I wouldn't do anything. I don't like Klondike Bars."
Then I would slowly unwrap a Klondike Bar and eat it in the kitchen, alone.
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