What can I say about Wal-Mart?
Upon entering, I take a deep last breath of fresh air. Like one does before entering a particularly potent portapotty. My eyes adjust to the dull yellow light and scan across the mass herd of human cattle, looking for a way through the crowd.
Hey, it's the huge (huge) woman who stands in the middle of the isle staring blankly, oblivious to any indication that anyone (me) would like to get around her. What's this here? The sunken-eyed dad who can't (and doesn't try to) control his wailing children as they scramble randomly back and forth, darting in front of carts and weaving around my legs like they want to be stepped on.
Can't hold my breath forever. I exhale, and my lungs are invaded by a combination of McDonalds, stale human breath, and that little extra funk that makes Wal-Mart special.
Holy hell, I found what I was looking for amongst all this crap. Pulling it off the shelf, I squeeze past the oily haired guy muttering to himself, the (another one?) overweight chic who feels the need to "sing" out loud to headphones which are headphones for a reason, and finally get to stand in line for a while as I suffocate.
Finally, I take my purchase, stuff it in my coat pocket, and head for the door. Surprise! It's the old senile "greeter", who fills the gap in her life with a meaningless task, and feels the need to check my receipt seeing as how the product is in my pocket therefore indicating I shoplifted it. Even though IT'S IN A FRIGGIN' WALMART BAG in my pocket. But is seeing the receipt enough? No, let's take the product and receipt back to the cashier and talk in low voices while glancing evil-eyed at the "shoplifter". Upon determining I didn't steal it (duh), I finally, finally leave this hellhole.
Fresh air never tasted better.
That was the horrific emotionally scarring story of the second and last time I shopped at Wal-Mart. I'd rather pay the extra couple bucks at Fred Meyer or Bi-Mart not to ever have to go there again.
Oh, forgot to mention. I voted "hate it"
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