COLUMN: Jug

To say 2020's been a challenging year would be a bit of an understatement.

Once upon a time, our paper ran happy headlines, I'm almost sure of it. Nowadays, I cringe as I unfold the morning edition, bracing myself for whatever global disaster awaits. Turns out we missed one.

While your attention's been diverted by minor news like a pandemic, civil unrest, and the potential economic collapse of the free world, an even more sinister story has been lurking in the shadows.

I hate to break it to you, but the Quad Cities has a water thief.

Last night, I went grocery shopping. I don't think I've made one successful trip to the supermarket this year without forgetting at least one crucial item I went there to buy. I'm too preoccupied trying not to get breathed on, casting sanctimonious glances at the unmasked, and navigating the one-way arrows.

I'm a firm believer in giving people the benefit of the doubt, but all bets are off in the grocery store. Whenever I pass someone in the aisle, I can't help but wonder, "Hmm, how COVID-y does THIS person look?" It's nothing personal, I swear -- but don't take offense if you see me non-chalantly holding my breath as I give you the widest possible berth. Yesterday I found myself ducking down a side aisle just to avoid a family of unmasked heathens. No big deal, I thought, I'll just wait here pretending to comparison shop for, umm, tampons. I definitely picked the wrong aisle to duck down.

Eventually I made it to the checkout with a cart full of essentials: some TV dinners, butter, pasta sauce, a jug of distilled water, coffee, and some quarantine cookies. It wasn't until later that night, sitting at home on the couch, that it hit me: WHERE'S MY DISTILLED WATER? I definitely had it in the checkout lane, but it sure wasn't in my kitchen. Somehow, some way, it never made it home with me.

The way I see it, there's a few possible explanations:

#1: In the twenty seconds it took me to return my cart to the corral, clearly some nefarious scoundrel disabled my alarm, picked the lock, broke into my car, and absconded with my water. He's probably sitting somewhere now, toasting me with a distilled glass of his plundered booty, jubilant in his 99 cent pillage.

#2: When I got home, it was 7:02 PM. I think I left the store at 6:51. Does it take eleven minutes to get from the store to my house? Or am I missing time? Perhaps I was kidnapped by aliens and taken aboard their mothership where I was studied intently for my intellect and brute machismo -- and, clearly, my water.

#3: Perhaps technology has evolved at such an alarming pace that plastic water jugs have now become sentient. Having just been snatched and taken against his will from his friends, perhaps Juggy noticed my back turned and leapt from the cart in a desperate bid for freedom. Maybe he's made his way out of town by now, learning to live and flourish far from the thirsty mouths of those who would do him harm.

But I'm not going to waste your time with ridiculous theories of aliens or sentient water jugs or, umm, a bagger forgetting to put the water in my cart. No, I'm pretty sure I know what happened. Occam's Razor tells us the best explanation is usually the simplest. But I've been spending a lot of lockdown time on the internet, and the internet tells us the best explanation is usually the most convoluted conspiratorial thing you can dream up.

So here's what I think happened.

As I approached the checkout lane, the cashier must have recognized me as a card-carrying member of the #fakemedia. Too bad I didn't recognize HIM as Dead Body #2 in that fifth season episode of Law Order, because he was no cashier -- he was a crisis actor. As I placed the water jug on the checkout counter, I hadn't noticed the UPC code directly corresponding to the number of false positive COVID tests reported that day. Knowing how dangerous it would be to send that fateful jug home with me, he quickly set the bar code reader to 5G and irradiated the jug with toxic chemtrails. Unfortunately, he hadn't predicted the reaction it would have with the adrenochrome within.

As the jug began to glow, he realized in horror it was projecting the mystical square and compass symbol of Freemasonry onto the Hy-Vee ceiling! He had to act fast lest their Deep State jig would be up. As I was scanning my debit card, he grabbed the jug and vaulted over the checkout counter, pulling out his iPhone 12 to send an unsecured email to the only person who could help. The call came instantly.

"Hillary?" he cautiously asked.

"That's right," the confident yet strangely reptilian voice said.

"I think... he knows."

"Don't panic. Do you have the jug?"

"I do."

"Then we're good. He's already heading home."

"How do you know?"

"The microchip we implanted in his flu shot, duh."

"The fool!" 

"Nothing can stop us now. Care to meet Bill & I for dinner? Pizza's on me."

At least that's how I assume it went down. Frankly, it sounds more realistic than murder hornets, plague squirrels, or Iowa bears. I'm not putting ANYTHING past 2020 at this point.

Update: On my way to work just now, I glanced in the back seat and there sat the missing jug. This is worse than I thought. Clearly, typing this column caught the attention of Mark Zuckerberg & Bill Gates, who promptly reported the security breach to their reptilian Illuminati overlords (Oprah? AOC? Flo from Progressive?) and spared no expense breaking into my garage and putting a replacement jug in my car while I slept. It's a good thing I'm woke, people.

2020 might not be done with us, but at least I won't be thirsty.