When misfortune strikes me in such a way that I am forced to replenish stock and procure supplies, I do so out of pure necessity. Superstores aren’t exactly my natural habitat. In fact, I think any time spent in one should be applied as advance payment on purgatorial punishment. My mission is simply to attain my goods and depart the premises post-haste. Instead, I find myself embroiled in a social experiment gone horribly wrong. As far as I’m concerned, Wal-Mart is nothing but a giant Petri dish of humanoid dysfunction.
My movements are such that I circumvent the crowds in a stealth-like fashion. Nary a blur is seen as I bob and weave through the mass of gluttonous consumers as they graze like demented cattle. As I swiftly navigate the jungle of Chinese plastic, I am in tune to the path of least resistance. At all costs, I will avert elbow-knocking with the gaggles of glassy-eyed gawkers.
My purpose is pure. My list is short and free of fluff. My visit is one of unadulterated functionality. Yet, most of those around me seem lost. They spin around in place eye-raping the shelves and drifting from aisle to aisle with strings of drool connecting their lower lip to their chest. The lack of certitude in their motion hints at a recent sale on Benadryl and wine coolers. The slightest breeze seems to move them along like farts in the wind carelessly aflutter.
Gizmos and gadgets are randomly plucked from the shelves, groped and prodded. Boxes are shaken and opened before being tossed askew from whence they came. Cancer-grade hygiene products are sniffed, sampled and slathered upon the necks of the vendees. With such a fondle fest going on, it’s like a DNA Swap Meet at the local fairgrounds. With every item cuddled and caressed, customers expose themselves to a grab-bag of pathogens, surface yeast and crotch-crickets. Biological warfare could be waged with the microbial funk residing on a Wal-Mart shelf. Look with your eyes, people! Not every item needs to be fingered, fidgeted and fucked with!
I enter the final stretch only to find more ragamuffins loitering about in their baggy-ass sweat pants. I can never tell if they dropped a deuce or if they’re trying to steal DVDs. If only shopping carts were rigged with cow catchers I could plow through the peeps like bowling pins sending them pell-mell to the wayside. I just have no patience for the shuffling dim-witted patrons of a dung gallery. I just want to pay for my AA batteries and make my escape to the great outdoors where I don’t have to share my oxygen with anybody within sneezing distance. Thank you for shopping with us, folks. Come again!