How Wal-Mart Raped My Soul

    There is nothing better to do to raise your self-esteem than to visit the Wal-Mart at 207 S. Memorial.

            It was last weekend.  I hadn’t shaved, or actually bathed yet. 

            It was one of those mornings where you roll out of bed, smell for you cleanest pair of jeans, Febreze your underwear and throw on a ballcap.  A morning where you’re out of bed at 2:00 p.m.

            Based on my attire I was feeling … oh, what’s the word for it … skanky.

            Still, I was the cleanest person there.

            I first experience the parking lot.  I drive through a maze of shopping carts, flying empty Wal-Mart sacks and Hispanic children.

            Now, before you send me angry e-mails, I love hispanics.  It’s children I hate.  Not all of them, just the ones I don’t like.

            I also love Fruity Pebbles, but that’s another blog.

            I park my car and make the life-threatening walk to the entrance.  For some unconscious reason, I put my wallet in my front pocket and take off my watch.  I pull my keys out to create a dagger to poke someone’s eyes out if needed. 

            That’s something I learned on Oprah.

            Someone asks me for money.  I think back to what Lori Fullbright, KOTV Crime Reporter, said during one of her safety presentations, “It’s better to be a jerk than a victim.”

            I yell, “I am not a victim,” and run through the front door.

            It’s Girl Scouts peddling their cookies again.

            I grab a shopping cart.  Goo oozes through my fingers.  I’m not sure if it’s layers of handsweat, snot or semen.

            Turns out, I don’t need a cart.  I need a sink.

            I walk into the restroom.  It smells like a state park restroom on a 105-degree summer day.  I’m not sure what I inhaled, but I probably would’ve caught less germs licking the shopping cart.

            Turns out, I don’t need a sink.

            I walk through the store to find my list of items.  The shelves are dirty.  The floors are dirty.  The walls are dirty.  The merchandise is dirty.  My hands are dirty.  The dirt is dirty. 

            I’m done with this place. 

            I take my armful of kitty litter, shaving cream, paper towels, corn, donuts and Hannah Montana season 1 to the express lane.

            I have my choice between the two registers that are open this Saturday afternoon.

            I choose the express lane with 18 people in line.

            The express lane is 20 items or less.  What kind of express lane is 20 items or less?

            As I wait, I notice Wal-Mart shoppers have a look.  It’s like porn.  You can’t describe it, but you know what it is when you see it. 

            It could be the scrunchies and acid-washed jeans.

            I stand in line for 30 minutes to purchase my six items.  My arms are tired.  Kitty litter gets heavy after 30 minutes.

            I could smell the body odor of the person in front of me, and the dirty diaper from the screaming baby behind me. 

            It’s at this point I realize I feel superior to everyone in this building.  This Wal-Mart may not be good for Wal-Mart’s image or the general health of this side of town, but it is good for my self-worth.

            I do feel better about myself.

            Still, I feel dirty.  I rush home and take a rape shower.

            I scrub off two layers of skin and cry, “Why?  Why?”