Metaphysical Attraction

I go to the movie theater on opening night as if cinematic features are investments that depreciate in value by the screening, or perishable goods with a dangerously close expiration date stamped on the film canister. To me, the idea of seeing Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay next Friday is akin to buying a gallon of whole milk that expires tomorrow (three days ago if I lived in New York City).
Let it soak in.
I’m glad I incorporated dairy products in a metaphor for the fuzzy logic which fuels my obsessive behavior.
What makes milk in the Big Apple expire two to four days prior to its date of demise in Secaucas? Do the five boroughs have inferior refrigeration capabilities? What would happen if I transported a carton with a looming deadline from Jersey City to Manhattan? Would it immediately sour and begin to coagulate as I crossed the George Washington Bridge?
Is anyone looking into this?
If I were the American Dairy Association or the Board of Agriculture or whoever the fuck has a vested interest in the popularity and/or consumption of milk in this country (probably whoever ejaculates on the upper lip of quasi-celebrities like Haylie Duff in those “Got Milk?” print ads), I would investigate this post haste.
When Big Milk starts advertising aggressively, you know the market must be fucked. I assume they have enough shit between their cheeks to deal with between health nuts, the lactose intolerant, dirty hippies a.k.a. vegans, and a culture too apathetic to wake up in time to eat breakfast. Now they are beleaguered by the heart of their product line spoiling prematurely in the most populated city in the nation. Three days? This is a significant discrepancy in the life of a quart of half-and-half.