I was just presented with the best argument for replacing pension with euthanasia/abortion in the 243rd trimester.

This old lady who looked older than a 30-years-old Russian babushka was feeling up all the freshly b̶a̶k̶e̶d̶ heated appelflappen at Albert Heijn, apparently struggling against her dementia and constantly and slooooowly picking “appelflap number 1,” making sure to lick her fingers to open an individual plastic bag for each while violently ignoring the perfectly good pair of tongs placed to avoid leper-like old mummies from slathering their spit-soaked hands over all the cakes.

I gave up on stocking up on sugar and went on my now less merry way, noticing the old lady apparently discovering that her wagon was nearly collapsing to a black hole of saliva-covered sugar from the illiterally hundreds “appleflap number 1” she had managed to slowly feel up, single-wrap and chug into her shopping cart of death. She, resolutely as continental drift, started emptying her appelflappen back into the tray.

The real kicker, though, was that after I had prevented from getting eggs by the literal house of a welfare queen for what felt like the lifetime of a semi-complex organism, the same old lady slithered in and started performing the same antics with the eggs, like some senile adult-baby cuckoo contemplating which of it’s “siblings” to first eject from the nest.

I have no problem with the nice old lady asking me to reach for a couple of cans of soup she couldn’t reach, though.