Why Wal*Mart is Like an Old Whore's Painful, yet Soothing, Leathery Tongue

As the inaugural post for this soon-to-be revolutionary blog, I found it difficult to choose a topic so groundbreakingly important to adequately launch this colossus. Then I went to Wal*Mart.

I have a great love for Wal*Mart deep in my loins. It is a strange love, almost to the point of hatred. I imagine my feelings toward Wal*Mart are similar to that of the husband who beats his wife because he loves her so much.

I like to pretend that going to Wal*Mart keeps me humble. Like I'm some sort of Mormon missionary going to South America to teach the natives about hats, or whatever Mormons teach. I don't know. But deep down (in my loins), I know the reason is a sick satisfaction; sort of like the satisfaction you get by watching two girls poo into a cup, right before your eyes go blind from all the tears and the blood from the pencil stab wounds.

But I never go to Wal*Mart without a reason. This day's reason was I had to obtain a gift card for a Secret Santa at my work. I won't go into details on why that is stupid. I also had big plans to buy something for myself, as I find no pleasure in buying things just for others.

Every time I enter Wal*Mart one thing never fails, and sure enough it happened this time as well. I make my way through the sliding doors, with a smarmy grin and a jaunty stroll, eager to make my time in Wal*Mart the utmost productive without spending a single moment dawdling. I tip my hat to the wounded beast guarding the entryway, skip through the theft prevention devices, then immediately get trapped behind the fattest, slowest family in America.

This time there were two of them, both headed by gargantuan mothers. These ladies were in the traditional Wal*Mart stance, where one's upper torso collapses atop the shopping cart and with one's legs as far withdrawn from the cart as possible, ensuring the ass consumes the most area an ass can within the confines of physics and nature. It's basically the closest thing to lying down that someone can do while shopping. I discovered the reason for this is that these people can't physically hold themselves upright, so once they leave their minivan they have to quickly transition their robust top-bodies to the nearest four-wheeled metal cage that they can throw their baby into.

I don't know what possesses these women, who upon entering Wal*Mart find the need to completely stop moving. It's like they are surprised or something. As if they are thinking to themselves, "What the hell? How did I get here? This is not my beautiful wife?" It can't be because they don't know where to go, as this is their thousandth visit to Wal*Mart this year, and that every Wal*Mart is identical. But they stopped anyway, and the children... the children were wild as wolves, flailing their arms from their tattered clothes. Tip No. 1: whenever the Wal*Mart mother stops moving it is a cue for all her tadpoles to disperse laterally with wanton disregard for human decency.

As always, I gingerly tried to sneak my cart past them, but once they saw me, all of a sudden they wanted to race. I always win, because my legs aren't afflicted with crippling bowleggedness from having all them babies.

I was mighty displeased to not find what I needed, so I just grabbed the gift card and suffered the painful experience of waiting in a Wal*Mart holiday line to buy a fucking gift card.

As my position in line slowly grew closer to the teller, I noticed he was looking me. I immediately identified the look as the "Why is this guy in line? He does not have a single item" look. In response I placed the gift card on the conveyor belt, and shame washed over me.

Finally it was my turn, I gave the teller the gift card, confident that he knew the score. He apparently didn't. The most perplexed look imaginable washed over his face, his eyes beglazoned with bewilderment. I still can't figure out what he could have thought a person with no items handing him a gift card could possibly want, other than to buy that gift card. So I told him,

"I would like to buy that."

No response.

I thought for a second, maybe Wal*Mart has instituted some sort of gift card embargo at their checkouts that I wasn't aware of.

"Is that okay?" I asked.

"Uh. Yeah." the gentle creature responded.

"Okay, can I put $25 on that?"

Then he said the most mind-boggling words one could say at that moment

"Uh. Yeah. I was like waiting for an answer."

What?!
I wasn't offended by the rudeness of the comment, since thats part of Wal*Mart's charm. I was offended because that makes no sense. Answer? to what? There was no question posed other my own. The only words that came out of his mouth up until that point was "Uh. Yeah." Waiting? You weren't waiting for shit. If anything I would be the one waiting for you to ask a question. According to this guy when I'm in a checkout I need to ask and answer all my own questions, and do it speedily, because I don't want to leave him waiting.

As I left Wal*Mart, I had that distinctive feeling of dirtiness, confusion, and anxiety that I have come so accustomed to. I vowed to never set foot in another Wal*Mart, as I do every time, claiming this was the worst experience I'd ever had.

I ended up going to the Phoenix Wal*Mart later that day. I found this out: In the analogy where the Gilbert Wal*Mart is Iraq, then the Phoenix Wal*Mart is the inside of Saddam Hussein's butthole, while his balls are being electroshocked. I'm not 100% sure if his balls were electroshocked, I can only presume at this juncture.

-Louis