Welcome to the Future of America.
Wifey, toddler, and me all went to Walmart last night to pick up some bedding for the half-pint. At the end of the journey, we ended up at one of those self-checkout lines, which at Walmart is a colossally stupid endeavor. The morbidly obese snaggletooth in front of us was waving her items around like she was divining water, UPC code sticking straight up. So we move onto the next one, and this mouth breather was taking each item and RAMMING it into the barcode scanner. The checkouts manned by actual employees were 8 deep, so at least we were entertained.
Putting self-scan checkouts at Walmart is like watching a toddler try to catch fish with a turd he took out of his diaper. Your typical Walmart customer does not understand what a barcode is, or how a barcode scanner works. They see the clerks waving shit around, so assume that the Eye of God knows what the price of the item is. It was like watching the Dawn of the Dead, bunch of brain-dead zombies shuffling around and banging into shit. Walmart is the only store I go to when I'm fully conscious of women looking at Garrett in a manner which can best be described as "creepy". Heather has relayed this story to some of you, but when she was pregnant the first go-round, we went into the Alpine Walmart. Some strange lady came up to her and said, "ah, you're going to have a little boy. Congratulations!"
I know it's cliche, but every time I go into a Walmart (about 2-3 times a year), I'm astounded how many women fail to understand what a "depilatory" is. I know we have a lot of French-Canadian women living in Michigan, but
GOD DAMN, BITCH YOU LOOK LIKE GROUCHO MARX. And yes, there was spandex. Yards of it.
So, to sum up, here is why you should not shop at Walmart:
1. The customers are homeless, practice voodoo, and are probably carrying diseases.
2. The stores are dirty, and you will get rabies from the toilets. OK, at the very least some strain of hepatitis.
3. Walmart is single-handedly responsible for the loss of US manufacturing jobs. That might be a stretch. Let's just say I feel much better about myself buying things at Costco vs. Sam's Club.
I have two other related Walmart experiences to share.
1. I went to the 28th St. store to buy Lord-knows-what (Walmart is always the last stop if I'm desperately looking for some item), and there was this dude just giving it to this woman in the parking lot. I'm not talking about sex. He was calling her things like "filthy bitch" in front of their ~4 year old kid. He did slap her in the parking lot, but I wasn't about to confront him outside of the store. I wasn't armed, and this dude clearly got out of prison not too long ago.
2. When I worked at Laser, I was getting into my car and slipped on the ice. COMPLETELY tore the crotch out of my khakis (I'm not civilized enough to call it an "inseam") all the way to my knees. Laser Alignment is (was) located about a quarter-mile down the street from...yeah. So, I snag a new pair of 'Slave Labor Co." khakis, and head to the Walmart dressing room to change.
It was like a goddamn public sewer in there. You ever walk into a state park outhouse that clearly had not been cleaned all summer? The ones where you look through the hole in the seat, and there is a Mt. Everest-sized pile of shit in there? Well, it smelled like someone had opened up the bowels of hell. Fill a dead trout with cottage cheese, leave him in the sun for a week, and you MIGHT start to approach the smell of this Walmart dressing room.
I took my shoes off, stood on the shoes themselves (as to avoid the brittle carpet, which I'm sure had gotten that way from years of being pissed on by retar^H^H^H^H^H Walmart's distinguished clientele), and changed. I considered leaving my blown-out khakis behind to provide a safe floor for the next person who wanted to use the room to change. I reconsidered, for two reasons: the odds were the next person was going to use the room as a public toilet, and I might need the evidence so the confused cashier would not accuse me of thievery. As it turns out, I was right on both counts.
The person who went in the Changing Room of Despair after me was clearly going in there to change her screaming kid. While technically not what I had in mind, it made my assertion accurate and I was satisfied. I debated sticking around to see where she left the dirty diaper, but secure in my knowledge that most Walmart customers have the hygiene of barnyard animals I opted to move on.
So I get to the cashier, and hand her the tags that were formerly on the pants I was wearing. I explained to her quickly that I was wearing the pants I was purchasing. She looked from the tags, to the ripped pair of pants in my hand, and said, "Sir, let us find you a different pair of pants. These are all torn." I explained to her again, that I tore the pair of pants in my hand, so came here to buy a new pair which I was wearing. She then said (I am not making this up), "I'm going to have to insist you take those pants off and buy a new pair with the tags still attached".
These khakis were not Polo. They were not Hilfiger. I turned around, pointed to the label on my ass ("OLD FADED GLORY - STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER *made in China by Chinese who took your jobs"), pointed to the tags, and said, "These are clearly the same brand. I am not trying to rip you off. I just changed in a dressing room that smelled like an 80 year old's colostomy bag, and I don't want to go through the indignity of going through the process again because you think I'm trying to jack Walmart on a $12 pair of khakis". For those who know me well, I have a boiling point that starts at -50C. A perfect storm of events has to occur for me to lose my shit, and that fuse was lit back when I blew the crotch out of my nice, $50 khakis purchased from a store whose dressing rooms do not resemble the toilets at a mental institution full of shit-chucking lunatics. Being a former clerk myself, I was laid back and usually let people get away with all sorts of nonsense - that's the freedom that making $5 an hour provides you. After having these new khakis on and having an almost irrational need to get out of this store, I couldn't abide by this chick stalling me. She did check me out immediately following my mini-rant; even the most intellectually devoid store clerk can tell when someone is about to pop.
In current events, I'm going to a Rick Springfield concert tonight. Bop Til You Drop, motherfucker.
Putting self-scan checkouts at Walmart is like watching a toddler try to catch fish with a turd he took out of his diaper. Your typical Walmart customer does not understand what a barcode is, or how a barcode scanner works. They see the clerks waving shit around, so assume that the Eye of God knows what the price of the item is. It was like watching the Dawn of the Dead, bunch of brain-dead zombies shuffling around and banging into shit. Walmart is the only store I go to when I'm fully conscious of women looking at Garrett in a manner which can best be described as "creepy". Heather has relayed this story to some of you, but when she was pregnant the first go-round, we went into the Alpine Walmart. Some strange lady came up to her and said, "ah, you're going to have a little boy. Congratulations!"
I know it's cliche, but every time I go into a Walmart (about 2-3 times a year), I'm astounded how many women fail to understand what a "depilatory" is. I know we have a lot of French-Canadian women living in Michigan, but
GOD DAMN, BITCH YOU LOOK LIKE GROUCHO MARX. And yes, there was spandex. Yards of it.
So, to sum up, here is why you should not shop at Walmart:
1. The customers are homeless, practice voodoo, and are probably carrying diseases.
2. The stores are dirty, and you will get rabies from the toilets. OK, at the very least some strain of hepatitis.
3. Walmart is single-handedly responsible for the loss of US manufacturing jobs. That might be a stretch. Let's just say I feel much better about myself buying things at Costco vs. Sam's Club.
I have two other related Walmart experiences to share.
1. I went to the 28th St. store to buy Lord-knows-what (Walmart is always the last stop if I'm desperately looking for some item), and there was this dude just giving it to this woman in the parking lot. I'm not talking about sex. He was calling her things like "filthy bitch" in front of their ~4 year old kid. He did slap her in the parking lot, but I wasn't about to confront him outside of the store. I wasn't armed, and this dude clearly got out of prison not too long ago.
2. When I worked at Laser, I was getting into my car and slipped on the ice. COMPLETELY tore the crotch out of my khakis (I'm not civilized enough to call it an "inseam") all the way to my knees. Laser Alignment is (was) located about a quarter-mile down the street from...yeah. So, I snag a new pair of 'Slave Labor Co." khakis, and head to the Walmart dressing room to change.
It was like a goddamn public sewer in there. You ever walk into a state park outhouse that clearly had not been cleaned all summer? The ones where you look through the hole in the seat, and there is a Mt. Everest-sized pile of shit in there? Well, it smelled like someone had opened up the bowels of hell. Fill a dead trout with cottage cheese, leave him in the sun for a week, and you MIGHT start to approach the smell of this Walmart dressing room.
I took my shoes off, stood on the shoes themselves (as to avoid the brittle carpet, which I'm sure had gotten that way from years of being pissed on by retar^H^H^H^H^H Walmart's distinguished clientele), and changed. I considered leaving my blown-out khakis behind to provide a safe floor for the next person who wanted to use the room to change. I reconsidered, for two reasons: the odds were the next person was going to use the room as a public toilet, and I might need the evidence so the confused cashier would not accuse me of thievery. As it turns out, I was right on both counts.
The person who went in the Changing Room of Despair after me was clearly going in there to change her screaming kid. While technically not what I had in mind, it made my assertion accurate and I was satisfied. I debated sticking around to see where she left the dirty diaper, but secure in my knowledge that most Walmart customers have the hygiene of barnyard animals I opted to move on.
So I get to the cashier, and hand her the tags that were formerly on the pants I was wearing. I explained to her quickly that I was wearing the pants I was purchasing. She looked from the tags, to the ripped pair of pants in my hand, and said, "Sir, let us find you a different pair of pants. These are all torn." I explained to her again, that I tore the pair of pants in my hand, so came here to buy a new pair which I was wearing. She then said (I am not making this up), "I'm going to have to insist you take those pants off and buy a new pair with the tags still attached".
These khakis were not Polo. They were not Hilfiger. I turned around, pointed to the label on my ass ("OLD FADED GLORY - STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER *made in China by Chinese who took your jobs"), pointed to the tags, and said, "These are clearly the same brand. I am not trying to rip you off. I just changed in a dressing room that smelled like an 80 year old's colostomy bag, and I don't want to go through the indignity of going through the process again because you think I'm trying to jack Walmart on a $12 pair of khakis". For those who know me well, I have a boiling point that starts at -50C. A perfect storm of events has to occur for me to lose my shit, and that fuse was lit back when I blew the crotch out of my nice, $50 khakis purchased from a store whose dressing rooms do not resemble the toilets at a mental institution full of shit-chucking lunatics. Being a former clerk myself, I was laid back and usually let people get away with all sorts of nonsense - that's the freedom that making $5 an hour provides you. After having these new khakis on and having an almost irrational need to get out of this store, I couldn't abide by this chick stalling me. She did check me out immediately following my mini-rant; even the most intellectually devoid store clerk can tell when someone is about to pop.
In current events, I'm going to a Rick Springfield concert tonight. Bop Til You Drop, motherfucker.