Tote Bag
In the beginning,
before logos, before slogans,
before the whale illustration
that launched a thousand brunches,
there was only Canvas,
a primordial beige fog
drifting across the universe.
From this fog emerged the First Tote —
stitched by the cosmic seamstress Bagatha,
whose fingers were made of recycled moonlight
and whose sewing machine ran on pure smugness.
The First Tote opened its mouth (it had a mouth then)
and declared:
“I SHALL CARRY ALL THINGS.”
And the universe,
not yet knowing sarcasm,
believed it.
Soon, tote bags began appearing everywhere —
in grocery stores, in fashion runways,
in the dreams of graphic designers who whispered,
“Flat… so flat… so printable…”
They multiplied faster
than consumer desire
during a seasonal sale.
One tote bag became ten.
Ten became a hundred.
A hundred became the number in Jason’s closet,
which scholars estimate to be “too many”
and “possibly sentient.”
The Tote Council convened.
They spoke in rustling canvas tones:
“We must find the Chosen One.
The human who will actually reuse us.”
They did not find this human.
The Plastic Bags, thin as whispers and twice as judgmental,
rose from their crinkly kingdom.
They marched across supermarket aisles,
chanting their ancient war cry:
“FREE WITH PURCHASE!”
The totes responded with their own battle hymn:
“FIVE DOLLARS BUT ETHICAL!”
The clash shook the earth.
Plastic bags flew like translucent ghosts.
Totes thudded like disappointed gym teachers.
The battle lasted seven days,
mostly because the totes insisted on taking breaks
to discuss typography.
From the chaos stepped a lone figure:
Jason
Bearer of Twenty‑Three Totes,
He Who Knows the Paradox.
He lifted a tote bag high —
the one with the ironic slogan,
the one that promised sustainability
but mostly carried books he meant to read.
“ENOUGH!” he shouted.
“We shall not be ruled by bags!
We shall reuse!
We shall repurpose!
We shall stop accepting totes at events
just because they’re free!”
The totes gasped.
The plastic bags trembled.
A seagull somewhere choked on a straw.
The universe shifted.
The cosmic seamstress Bagatha appeared once more,
holding a tote bag woven from starlight and regret.
She bestowed it upon Jason and said:
“This is the Eternal Tote.
Use it until it frays.
Use it until it stains.
Use it until it becomes legend.”
Jason nodded,
and for the first time in history,
a tote bag was used more than twice.
The other totes bowed.
The plastic bags retired to a quiet life
as bathroom trash liners.
Balance was restored.
And so the epic concludes:
with a single tote bag,
well‑worn,
well‑loved,
carrying groceries,
books,
and the eternal burden
of human contradiction.
Long live the tote.
Long live the absurdity.
Long live the saga of carrying things
and pretending it’s saving the world.
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Tote Bag
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