Jeff Vrabel: Paper vs. plastic, or, Showdown in Aisle 12

I'm not going to name names, but I'm starting to think that a certain chain of grocery stores is getting fat kickbacks based on the number of plastic bags they get out the door every day. I have proof of this. Well, not really "proof" in the sense of evidence that can be used to back up a theory, but a vague notion, which is, I think, all I need anyway.

But first, a little background: If I'm being honest, I identify more with the clique of filthy, barefoot, potato-sack-wearinggreenies more than I actually participate in it, but I do what I can. I installed the cool spinny light bulbs at home. I keep the windows open when possible, which is an exceptional treat during love-bug season. It doesn't always work: I was once suitably scolded by the considerably greener Packet reporter Tim Donnelly for once chucking a plastic bottle into a trash can situated IMMEDIATELY NEXT to a recycling bin, which was a dumb mistake on my part, but in my defense, the contaminants in my groundwater have left me mostly blind. Anyway, I'm not militant about it or anything, I just do these things out of basic human goodness, and, of course, to get that feeling of tremendous superiority I enjoy afterwards.

But this bag situation has been going on for more than two years, long enough to suggest that something more sinister is afoot. The first problem is having to face a loaded question at the counter -- "Is plastic OK?" -- which forces you, the conscious consumer, to the instant defensive. "Well, no," you have to respond while not sounding like an insufferable twit, "I'd like paper, or maybe you could even throw the items into this little bag I brought with me. Here. See? It's cloth-y."

But you cannot do this, because you don't have time to do this, because by the time the questioner has asked the question, he already has begun launching your purchaseables into a multitude of plastic bags. I've literally said, "Actually, can I get paper please?" only to have the cashiers stop cold and stare at me as though I just announced my intention to produce a live rooster out of my mouth. They share a look when this happens, as if to say, "Um, you know we only ask that to be nice, right?", and then in a motion so slow as to be almost unperceivable to the human eye, they remove the objects they've already put in the plastic bag and deposit them into the paper one like they're made of some super-dense material from space that requires the utmost concentration to even begin to think about lifting. I am not good with uncomfortable silences, so I generally spend this interminable time reading about Jennifer Aniston's current dating situation and/or Suri Cruise, who I am incredibly worried about.

Listen, I'm not knocking cashiers or the extremely nice people who help bag your groceries, but on the other hand, it's not like I'm asking them to spend a weekend scrubbing oil off of hundreds of baby loggerhead turtles. I'm basically looking to carry the giant orange juice bottle by my own little self. I purchased my son two T-shirts last week, and they came to me in a bag with which I could have backpacked around the western United States for three months, which is good, because otherwise the shirts could have been mauled by the horde of vicious wild boar that you often find roaming free around Old Navy.

A Snickers bar gets its own comfortable bag. Milk, which comes with a handle, gets double-bagged. A BOX OF RICE got double-bagged, I guess in case the Rice-A-Roni people actually filled the box with piping hot pudding that's leaking out of each side? Grocery marts of America, hear me: Not every item purchased in every store every day requires its own protective baggie to help keep it safe on the long and treacherous walk to the parking lot.