The other day, we asked a bunch of friends to contribute to a piece on guilty pleasures. It was fun, but the timing was downright spooky.

I had already written about my main guilty pleasure (MTV‘s Real World / Road Rules Challenge) when I went to the supermarket to stock up on some staples.

Now I know that Yoplait Noruiche smoothies are marketed to women, and with a name like that, probably French women. But hey, I’ve worn women’s trainers, and have been known to shop at Sephora, so what do I care if you think I’m a woman because I drink yogurt smoothies?

At the supermarket, I made sure to stock up on some Yoplait Noruiche so I can make it ’til lunch without my stomach digesting itself. The “guest worker” manning the cash register took a look at my selections and said in a leering voice: “You liiiiike the smoooothie, uh?” Just hearing this lunchbox say this made me feel dirty, and not want to buy the smooooothies. If I wanted to hear running commentary on what I buy at the market, I’d go to whatever store Gallagher bags for and buy 8 cans of Crisco and some Saran Wrap. What about it, biatch?

So suddenly, something perfectly wholesome turns into a guilty pleasure. Remind me to sign up for a club card at that joint.

Lest you think that the above example is the only time supermarket cashiers get all up in my biz, allow me to continue.

Up to about five years ago, I never touched caffeine, and with all the meth running through my veins, I wouldn’t have felt it anyway. But since then, I need caffeine at 8am and 4pm just to make it through the day. My 4pm fix usually comes in the form of Bawls energy drink. It’s not a very popular drink, so I have to go to the same few stores to hook it up. At one of these stores, the high-strung cashier constantly makes jokes about the unfortunate name, (it takes balls to drink that stuff, etc) and tries to get me to switch to something with less caffeine (as if that wouldn’t defeat the purpose). I’ll grant that this clown doesn’t know that he’s giving advice to someone who knows just about everything about how to artificially stimulate the human body, but you’d think even he would get tired of saying the same damn thing every time I’m in that spot. And until we live in a world where there are no nutritionists, I’ll pass on nutrition advice from supermarket checkout guys.

In summation, take my money, bag my shit and shut the fuck up.