Stores are offering no interest to people who pay for their $2.79 cans of baked beanz (Heinz's spelling, not mine) within 18 months.
EIGHTEEN MONTHS. If my erudite helper newt T-Bone's math is to be trusted, that calculates to about 15 cents a month. Or, roughly .003 cents per bean. (Although that's just a shmestimate). But seriously, if you're opening up a credit card to purchase a product that a beggar can pay for with his pocket change, then perhaps you need to rethink whether you should be shopping in the first place and simply learn to beg better.
That said, I suppose this no interest offer would be useful if you were to buy several pallets of beanz, which is what I would've done if I didn't need to pinch my pennies to pay for a Maggie Moo's smoothie, which cost seven f*cking dollars.
I don't know about you, but that seems a bit exorbitant to me, especially considering that they make their "fruit" smoothies with sorbet and milk. At least the sorbet was mango flavored. But Jesus, or Nikkal rather (The Phoenician Goddess of Fruit! Duh!), seven bones for a milkshake (let's not try to health if up by calling it a fruit smoothie, okay?) just ain't right. Especially when I could've gone next door and purchased enough beanz to create an equillibrium on a old-time scale weighing two dumpster babies.
And speaking of dumpster babies, if ever there was something that needed to be discarded so carelessly and left to die (wow, I'm depressed now...), I would have to vote for IKEA. If I ever have to go back there I will pack a steak knife in my handbag and stab myself repeatedly with it because at least the physical pain would alleviate some of the mental strain of being there, which, according to cultural fart "7th Heaven" and, in particular, the seminal "Cutters" episode, cutting oneself is a mildly dramatic and easily solved way to deal with stressful and/or irritating events, such as watching an episode of "7th Heaven."
However, when I leave IKEA, this tidy, labyrinthine realm of prefabricated Swedish hell, remind me to remove said steak knife from my handbag lest I stab myself accidentally.
Oops. Too late. Ouch. And I would cut myself again to relieve the stress of being stupid enough to carry around a steak knife in my purse, but I'm afraid self-mutilation is only a hilariously ridiculous problem (opposed to a seriously unfunny problem that should be treated by certified professional) if Reverend Eric Camdem is there to give me snappy, yet wholesome, advice.
But alas, next to actually having to watch a "7th Heaven" marathon sober, shopping for home goods in Northern Virginia is a virtual instruction book on how *not* to spend a Saturday afternoon. Unless, of course, you need several giant cans of discounted beanz.