Earl and I ran errands tonight. We stopped and hand washed the Acura. We even brought the towels so we could dry it and make it look really shiny. We ran to the post office. We stopped at the ATM. It was there that Earl dropped a bomb on me. “We need to stop at Wal*mart.”
The temperature is going to be near 100 degrees tomorrow. This makes the factory environment of Earl’s plant tip closer to 120 degrees. Being the caring general manager of the facility that he is, Earl wanted to pick up several cases of Gatorade and bottled water for his employees, to try to make working conditions as bearable as possible.
I hate to admit it, but Wal*mart has the best deal on Gatorade. They have to, or else Wal*mart wouldn’t sell Gatorade. That’s just the way it works in Wally World.
I think I have anger management issues with a touch of a superiority complex. When I see people walking through Wal*mart with those god awful cell phone ear pieces I want to slap the said wearer right across the face. Hard. I want to say “you’re not that important and you look stupid.” If they’re not wearing the ear piece and opting to talk on the phone instead, I want to beat them over the head with their phone. I feel a strong urge of hostility when I see this gross abuse of technology.
Then I see the people in those motorized carts terrorizing everyone around them and buying cases of generic macaroni and cheese. And cartons of cigarettes. I want to shove those people right out of those carts. There are people on crutches who could use those carts, but they’re hogging them up because they’re damn lazy and eating all that macaroni and cheese. An occasional meal of homemade macaroni and cheese is a delight but a constant diet of that fake crap is a travesty. I would like to yell “eat some salad!” as I shove them out of the lazymobile. They’d go ‘plop’ on the floor.
I don’t get hostile in K-mart or Target. I was friendly back in the days of Ames. There’s just something about Wal*mart that makes me downright surly. I don’t know if it’s the fact that we’ve been stripped of just about any other choice than the supercenter behemoths. Perhaps it’s the extraordinarily loud television sets mounted from the ceiling or the shrill service desk clerk yelling for a tampon price check over the intercom. Whatever the reason, I feel like when I step into Wal*mart, I Always Have Issues, Always.
