Robert Robus goes to the supermarket

I, one will note, am Robert Robus. I send a heartfelt and appreciative greeting to the millions of fans who track my escapades on a quasi-quotidian basis. Well, then: here I am, about to enter Bumbo's, the local supermarket of I, Robert Robus--to which I am not above directing my steps on at least five occasions per annum. (On other occasions I stave off my appetite with chunks of plaster, which have been protuberant in my abode since I began hacking at the south wall of my kitchen not five years ago.) And lo: as I stride through the glorious panes of glass which miraculously part as I tread near, I see a sea of strange wheeled contraptions of steel, whose purpose, furthermore, I can scarcely summon to cognizance.

Yet that is of precisely no importance. I shall proceed. Now, I am traversing yet another pair of those wondrous moving panes of glass. And, by Jove! The sight that awaits me is simply magnificent! Everywhere, and all around me, lies food! Upon my word, dear readers: this is scarcely what one might expect upon entering one of those emporia that commonly enter our vernacular discourse under the designation "supermarket"--this is scarcely what one might expect! In fact, I anticipated to encounter here nothing more--nor nothing less--than shoe polish, twill caps, and kerosene for one's lamps. But what are these? "Frosted Flakes?" How absolutely useless, incorrigible, and absurd!

I must say, far from being propitiated, allayed, and assuaged by these proceedings, I have, to the contrary, been completely and utterly incensed. This infernal "supermarket" is clearly a sinister plot of the modern world (of which I remain, by the way, completely oblivious) to flummox, bamboozle, and otherwise discombobulate lofty personages such as I, Robert Robus. I shall not stand for this, you hear me? I shall not take it! In fact, so as to show these tyrants who's boss, I shall now go to the counters toward the front of this emporium, and transmit my august opinions over that strange communication modality which, as I seem now to recall, is commonly referred to as the "intercom."

[OVER SAID COMMUNICATION MODALITY]
Attention all personages who currently find themselves within the confines of Bumbo's: this "fine supermarket" in which you are currently "shopping for food," is not, in fact, a food emporium! Rather, it is a sinister implement of power and control manipulated by unscrupulous and utterly insidious hands! When you think you are merely browsing for celery, Harry, you are being implanted with strange devices and surveilled by Martians in cahoots with management! When you think you are merely selecting juices, Sally, you are unwittingly transmitting classified information to the planet Zolok! And so, in the midst of these dire and sordid circumstances, I hereby implore all customers: get out before it's too late! Get out before it's too late! This emporium is not actually a supermarket, and--Hey! What are these strange gentlemen doing here? And furthermore, what are those strange chunks of metal which are pinned to those mysterious blue uniforms they appear to be wearing? And--hey, you brutes! Let go of my shirt! Let go of my shirt! It is I, Robert Robus, the world's most vaunted cybercomedian; how dare you ruffle my lapels? You haven't heard the end of this, you tyrants--you haven't heard the end!

Dear readers, seeing as I, Robert Robus, am now being brutalized by these savage tyrants (who are, as I speak, endeavoring to wrest this communications device from my clutches), I must hereby sign off. If Tartar is able to afford the bail, I shall return quite promptly to thrill you with more musings (and many further ridiculous narratives) from the desk of I, Robert Robus! Until then, farewell!