May you live in interesting times…and, if they fail to be interesting enough, I invite you to visit Walmart.
Though I have made several vows to never go there ever again, damn if it doesn’t suck me back in with the always-mistaken belief that: this time it will be different.
It’s never different. It never will be different. I realize every time that the shoppers are just as likely to be wearing pajamas as the last time I visited, and the “parents,” just as inclined to threaten their young children with violence.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Walmart after dark is like a meth den. While I’ve never actually been in a meth den, a crack house or a methadone clinic...I feel like Walmart draws its unique brand of what the f**k from those kinds of venues.
I’m not judging (I am absolutely judging), but the folks I saw at Walmart just hours ago could not pass a piss test. And my compassion fades when you put your stupid, wasted hands on your kid.
Though way less traumatizing, I find no joy in waiting in line for silly lengths of time in the middle of the afternoon. Does anybody work at that store? Self-checkout is no better, because when things go awry—and they always do—there isn’t a warm body in sight to come to your rescue.
The last time I caved and went to Walmart before today, I saw two employees get into a shouting match about bagging. I know one of them was in management, but I assure you, neither was management material.
As a wise man once said: Why would you go there? Do you also lick your fingers and stick them in outlets sometimes?
No, but it could hardly be worse.