A few years ago, during the lull between Christmas and New Years', I walked down the little grocery on my corner to pick up a dozen eggs. Apparently they hadn't gotten their normal delivery for that week, because the refrigerator with the eggs was almost empty. I reached in and grabbed a case, opened it up, and one of the eggs was broken. Yech. Put it back. I grab another: same thing. I grab a third, and all the eggs are fine, but I notice that the date on the carton is in November. I grab a fourth, and the date on that carton is April. So I turn to leave the store without buying anything.
"You having some trouble over there?" the storekeeper asks me.
"I am," I told him, and explained.
He gets this stricken look on his face: this little store is his baby, his pride. He goes over to look. "These could be good until next April," he says.
Hmmm, maybe he has one carton of super-eggs that will stay good for four months. "I don't care which April it is," I said. "I don't want 'em."
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