my name is bob, and i suffer from priceclubobia.
everytime i venture into one, there is always someone checking out with a four year supply of mustard, tums, and toilet paper, which makes me worry, do they know something i don't know?
what possible terrorist plot have they been tipped off to?
some sort of super grinder that churns the world's food supply into hotdogs?
so i leave in a huff to warn loved ones, whom i have fewer of now because of all my previous false alarms.
it's a terrible, lonely disease that i battle one shopping trip at a time.