(Baby Daddy wants it noted for the record, my habit of wondering aloud is often the cause of my misadventures. He contends my life would be considerably simpler is I learned to keep my big mouth shut sometimes. While this is often a valid point, in this case, it would mean missing the most excellent interaction that followed)
The stock boy beside me, who looked like he was all of 12, heard my musings and decided to help me out. He told me would check it out. He left his egg stocking duties to seek out the milk stocking boy. This one was obviously his superior because he looked maybe 16 or something. There was a conference, an honest to goodness, two minute discussion on the issue. Egg boy was sent back with an answer: “We think brown eggs come from the farm.”
I stood there stunned for a second. “I think they all come from a farm,” I replied upon recovery. He was then stumped. He turned to go back and conference with milk boy. I walked away. With my farm-raised, brown eggs. Because they’re just prettier.