Episode 87: Dante Aligheri Was Wrong...Hell Is A Wal-Mart

Author's Note: This is my angry rant about my shopping experience at a nearby Wal-Mart. In this post, you'll see my darker side come out. I will not apologize for you becoming frightened or if this seems disturbing...you have been warned.

If some of the products I normally buy were available anywhere else, no matter the price, I'd gladly stop shopping at Wal-Mart.

I got the bright friggin' idea to go to Wal-Mart Saturday rather than Friday. Why? There were groceries that needed restocking and I was all outta my damn Xenadrine. So, I call up a friend of mine to borrow the car as per our arrangement and off I go to that fucking monument to consumerism.

Getting there and getting in wasn't the problem. Hell, even the greeter there was really nice to me but that's her job isn't it? Still, I felt the smile was warm and genuine (and was enough to cut through any man like a hot knife cuts through butter on a hot sidewalk) and was enough to make me smile back at her and wish her a good day as I would any other well-meaning person.

Still, that's when I found that I had finally descended into the Ninth Circle of Hell. First thing to grab was the Xenadrine, lest I forget it. I'd cut back the dosage on the first bottle, only taking two per day rather than the prescribed four. Now, I think I'll up it back to four again and run a savage burn on my midsection. Using my street maneuvering skills I pulled one of those Mr. Fantastic twist, bend, turn tricks and grabbed a bottle off the shelf, having to slip past someone (or two) to do it. Then, much to my horror, I saw how long the line was and I sat in for a long wait. I ended up carrying on a conversation with the woman in front of me about the new workout routine, how the Xenadrine worked for me the last time and how this time would be different for me...for 20 fuckin' minutes.

Once I was done there, I made a bee line for the footwear department. The soles on the shoes I'd obtained from the Dollar store in a pinch were no damned good. The soles had worn down in less than four weeks and had actually broken where the ball of the foot would create the most pressure...all the fuckin' way across. Needless to say, I thought better of getting the same pair of Dr. Scholls sneakers from the last time. Those had fallen apart after three months.

It's no secret that I'm hell on footwear and the only footwear that has been able to withstand the torture through which I put them are combat boots and S.W.A.T. Team-Style Police Boots. My pair of boots has lasted me almost three years now but I've gone through sneakers like Imelda Fuckin' Marcos. I picked out a pair of Starters, tried them on and decided that was the pair for me. Let's give this bunch a try, I thought, they make a helluva ballcap and jacket.

On to the food on the list. I grabbed a huge bag of cat food, 40 cans of soft food for Izzy, the kitten and then...food for me. I stacked up on two cases of bottled water, foregoing the soda this time (I still have a large remnant of the 24 pack I'd bought before Misty left on the 6th...and the beer which I've barely touched) and then all the rest. Foods high in protein, mostly meats, shells and cheese, body wash and two new scrubbers as mine are worn smooth out. The more food that was piled into the basket, the harder it was to maneuver.

Now, I know you're asking, "But Damien, how the hell hard can this kind of shopping be?"

Ok, it's not the difficulty in choosing foods, that was done prior to my shopping trip. What presented the greatest difficulty is that I'm a typical man. I have a damn shopping agenda and you're either in or in the way with it. I know how these evil corporate fuckers work...I used to work at this particular Wal-Mart about eight years ago and I'll go back to washing cars before I EVER work there or at any other Wal-Mart again.

The inner workings of Wal-Mart are a nightmare. During the day, those motorized carts creep and crawl like a lowrider fulla Mexican Cholos about to do a drive-by in your neighborhood but at night, someone drops a bored-out 454 Big Block on NOS into those bastards and they run like something out of The Fast And The Furious: Tokyo Drift. The most fucked thing about those carts aren't the carts themselves but the people driving them. Most of them who utilize them do not need them and if you think I'm just being an asshole, take this one and try it on for size.

I'd been working in the aisle with the condiments one particular night, stocking with my coworker Joe. A little old lady had whipped that cart around, came to a screeching halt, got up off the thing, grabbed a couple of items, tossed them into the basket and then proceeded to run right into the side of Joe's thigh, deadlegging him. I know the pain of motor dysfunction when something hits that mass of nerves and it made ME wince. Joe nearly dropped the case of mayo jars that he was holding over his head and he uttered, "Oh shit!"

Granted, it was only loud enough for me, him and the old lady to hear but still, it's against policy to cuss...even on your break. They simply will not tolerate it for any reason, right or wrong.

Joe managed to save the mayo and the old lady from being bombarded by fully-loaded glass jars and he did manage to stick them onto the shelf...their original intended destination.

Joe quickly recomposed himself, favoring the other leg upon which he stood and asked politely, "Can I help you get anything?"

She had asked him to retrieve something just a little further down and he did so and as he put it in the basket even I was astonished and stood in slack-jawed horror as this little elderly woman said in an even louder voice, "Now you think you can move the fuck out of my way?"

Joe did and apologized. Later on we were both called in to talk about the whole rotten mess to the supervisors. It wasn't just Joe's job on the line, it was mine too. They nearly didn't believe that the woman had said anything of the sort or performed such a deed until someone driving the electronic pallet jack had confirmed our story.

Now, I told you that story to tell you this story. It seemed like everywhere I went people blocked the aisles left and right. At one point, I was trapped and no amount of "Excuse me" would work. There was nothing more that I'd have loved to have done than grab a Mossberg 12-Guage Pump Action Shotgun from sporting goods, load the fucker and proceed to blast anyone in my way the hell out of my way. Hail To The King, Motherfucker!

There they were, the Backwater Inbred Nation with families in tow, completely blocking every route or stopping short in front of me and it was all I could do to keep from wrapping a chain-link dog leash around my fist and begin beating the Holy Shit out of them. If that weren't enough, every elderly person was having a goddamned reunion in just about every section of this fuckin place. I wanted to take some of them by the hair and stuff their heads into the deep fryers in the deli...that'll fuckin' fix 'em. Still, I bit my tongue and kept trying to move in other directions.

But wait, there's more. There were people cutting me off left and right or just plain being goddamn rude by nearly shoving me out of the way to get to something and then having the audacity to ask, "You don't mind, do you?"

Not if you want to keep your fucking spleen I thought but continued to let them through.

Sure, I could have been a little more aggressive, however, the soles on my shoes were not allowing me the traction necessary to move the behemoth that was once my cart. If I got the thing moving, it was hard to turn and even harder to stop. Perhaps the employees couldn't cuss but I have no loyalty to Wal-Mart and I'm damned sure no longer employed there.

By the time I was done and had made my way to the front, that's when Irony reared it's ugly head at me.

Now it's not news that they have something like 1,426 registers but only 2 are open and one of them is the express lane for 20 items or less. Let me ask you guys a question, if you've ever worked there in the front, maybe you can help me out. Why is it that the self-checkout lanes still require some stupid motherfucker with a code to authorize your purchases? Goddammit, man a register! Talk about corporate inefficiency!

I find the shortest line which is closer to the exit furthest from the damned car and I pick it.

This is where I receive confirmation that I need to begin training on Carl Cestari's (God Rest Him) video Iron Fist, Iron Body whether I like it or not. I literally made a knuckle bleed by scraping it against the cart on accident. I know, I should have stayed, filed an accident report and blah fuckin' blah but let's get one thing straight. I have the balls to put alcohol of any potency on a cut or scrape to quell an infection. Why should I have to stay through this fucking hell one minute longer than is necessary to perform a huge beaureacratic function I can perform myself. Incidentally it was the first knuckle of the middle finger on my right hand and if that doesn't tell you something I don't know what will.

Anyway, I get out of Wal-Mart and, by this time, all I wanna do is fucking leave the premesis. I packed my things into the trunk and made like a stoner and smoked that joint with a swiftness.

By now, I'm so stressed out that I could scream. I come home, put everything away and by the time I bring the car back to my friend I have my PSP loaded up in the passenger seat. I tell him he doesn't have to bother bringing me home, I'm walking it. I could use it since I'm now working out.

Now, I ask you this. Why is it when you've made up your mind to do something and they can see you're serious do they ask you that stupid fucking quetion "Are You Sure?"

"Nope!" I wanted to respond, "I was just getting ready to see how long it would take you to answer me there, Skippy. Heeeere's your sign."

My feet hit the street, clad in my new shoes and I found I had a spring to my step.

Problem. You see, when I left the house, I had my hoodie on. It was plenty windy outside and chilly as hell but now, the air is still and the sun is blazing. It took me roughly an hour to reach my house and by then, I'm sweating my balls off. I'd initially decided that a workout was not in my plans for the night but I wasn't so stressed out anymore.

I decided to do the damned workout anyway.

More to come on that.