Sam Walton really missed the boat. If the old fool had really wanted to get rich and retire early he would have built a large theater above the entrances to all of his stores. Each theater would seat several hundred people and two huge one-way glasses would face both the parking lot and the checkout counters. These theaters are for those among us who want to gape open-mouthed at the freak show in the store, but are otherwise too polite to stare at the original article. Tickets would be sold, popcorn and pop peddled and not only would America do its one-stop shopping at Walmart but America would get its one-stop entertainment out of the way at Walmart, as well. On nine days out of ten such a show would be a better performance than anything that could possibly be playing at any movie theater anywhere. Bet me people like me and you and a boy named Sue would line up for tickets and laugh our guts out watching the sub-human menagerie that come and go at Walmart each day.
Ever been to a Walmart? Of course you have, don’t lie. Not only do you save some bucks at the mega-mart but there is the added bonus of seeing sights there that you never dreamed existed even on the old midway freak shows. Toothless, sunken-faced meth zombies, ballz-to-the-wallz tattoo lizards, head-studders and nose-piercers, 700-pound land whales on those poor little electric bulldozers that seem to be straining with every inch and make warning sounds when backing up like dump trucks make, hunchback ogres, hairy butt-cracks, anorexic skeletroids, these and other questionable life forms that would never think of patronizing a normal grocery or clothes store at the mall will walk, creep, crawl, creak, slip, slide, roll, waddle, wobble, stagger, stumble, lumber, and knuckle-drag right into Wally World as if they felt right at home . . . which, of course, they do. Trust me: You will see sights at Walmart you have never ever seen before, not even in your worst nightmares. They are all on display at Walmart, and it’s all free!
My first real intro to the Wondrous World of Walmart—or “Methmarts,” as we call them in Florida–came by accident. Officer Good Body (my dominatrix) and I had spent an hour or so a while back loafing on one of our local beaches.
The folks from the mainland were out in full force that day to beat the heat on our island and even before we had locked our bikes we knew the place would be packed. T’was. People, people, people . . . sprawled on the sand, bobbing in the water, boozing on boats, even floating above in parasails—humanity was out in full force that day on the blue Gulf. Whatever, the woman and I rolled out our quilt, peeled off our shirts, flipped off our flip-flops, then got right down to working on our melanoma. Funny. After a bit, we both couldn’t help but notice that unlike 99% of America, this beach was literally bodulated by bouncing, beautiful bodies. Bikinis, boobed and bootied, fully filled out by lasses, young and not-so-young; swim trunks, hunked and bulging by tanned men who obviously did give-a-damn about their looks; t’was indeed pleasant to note.
But it was amidst this reverie that I wondered aloud to my wife where all the others were; where were the ones who peopled that other ninety-nine percent of America? Alas, as we soon found out, most were at our local Walmart. Late that afternoon Officer GB had to pick up something and so. . . . Not sure I have ever seen a more “entertaining” sideshow anywhere this side of a carnival than this one that day in Englewood, Florida. I had been in some of Sam’s other stores around the nation but for some reason that spaghetti had never really stuck to my wall.
Once in the cavernous store, I stared in awe. I whispered to my partner that it “looks like all the carnival workers in Florida are out today stocking up on Sudafed.” She busted up. “Maybe a crack addict convention or a dirt bike rally would be closer to the mark,” she laughed. Whatever, they’uns wuz out in force that day and it wuz sumpin’ ta see, sho.
At least one bedraggled hag was clearly clad in a house robe; another person, a man, I think, was wearing what looked like pajama bottoms and an old army parka with the hood up (it was 85 degrees outside). A kid, maybe ten, had a bright red Mohawk and was sporting punk rock regalia. An enormous amorphous individual of dubious gender was taxing and maxing one of those electric lard movers; this half-ton monster was wearing a tank top and shorts and, well. . . . As with this sight and many others, I actually had to look away; “disgusting” does not begin to describe the sight. Anywho, if you want a look at some of these great All-Americans, just google “Walmart peeps & freaks.”
Now, it stands to reason that since Wally World tugs like a magnet on the—how should I say?—on the more modestly funded and the least mentally empowered among us, well, then it stands to reason that there will be more crimes committed here than in other stores. And it also stands to reason that of those crimes committed, the average Walmart criminal will be on average—how should I say?—-will be pretty damned stupid, or about as sharp as a marble. For example. . . .
Justin Jacobs was doing what he normally does, i.e., hanging around our Walmart, trying to turn a buck, hoping to get high, looking stupid, acting suspicious. This 28-year-old part-time drug dealer and full-time jack wad was really nervous and needed something to get him back up there in that drug-induced oblivion where he normally spends most of his waking hours.
When jittery Justin saw some old coot in a wheel chair picking up an order at the pharmacy counter, he made his move. After first asking the surprised gent if he could buy the pills—and receiving an adamant “Get the hell outta here!”—Jacobs resorted to the law of the jungle and decided to just take what he wanted. Hmmm. It would seem that in the “jungle” Justin occupies he is just a worm, bi-valve or slug. Tugging back and forth, this manly specimen could not even out muscle an octo-cripple in a wheel chair. After punching the victim several times in the puss, Justin decided that discretion was the better part of valor and that it was better to run away and live to steal another day and when the going gets tough then the . . . oh, hell, Justin just fled out the door . . . with a dozen security cameras rolling.
With a fat file of arrests—24—for such trifles as battery, burglary and bungled robberies, Justin the Jailbird is now in jail again, just a waitin’ for some sympathetic judge to release him for the 25th time so he can get that fix he so desperately needs.
Beating up a cripple in a wheel chair! Now that’s pretty low, about as low as a man can go, about as low as a snake’s belly in a wagon rut. Maybe next time out Justin can pilfer some silverware from a church and pawn it, or knock a four-year-old off her bike and sell it, or maybe he can find a grave to rob or. . . .
War on Drugs? Hahahahahaha!!!! Right! Crack me up! DEA don’t need to go down to Columbia or Mexico to lose that war—just come to Charlotte County, Florida.
Speaking of drugs. . . .
Seldom doth a week elapse lest one or more twenty-somethings are caught wheeling out one or more flat-screened TVs from our Meth-Mart. Maybe it’s because their already walnut-sized brains are so totally sizzed that these zit-faced zombies don’t see a problem boosting these enormous things in broad daylight, in front of hundreds of shoppers, watched by more security cameras overhead than a casino has. Yes, it may be the most expensive item in the store and may render the most swag from a fence, but. . . . Hey? Hello? Like, dude! . . . the flippin’ things are off-the-charts huge! What on earth makes these idiots—three tried it just the other day—what makes them think they can just muscle these things into shopping carts then wheel them out to the car unnoticed? Is it because the eighty-year-old Wal-Mart “geezer greeters” are no longer guarding the gates? Is it because they think that they look like just your every-day normal drug-addicted Walmart customers? Is it because they think no one is watching any of those thousand camera monitors?
Anyway, the three above Mensa members decided on bush bail when confronted by five hundred waiting cops, fifty barking K-9s and the entire Charlotte County Air Force whirling overhead. Seems the thieves were even worse at fleeing than they were at stealing and they, of course, were rounded up in record time, breaking the old Guinness Book Record for “Quickest Walmart Foot-Chase Apprehension” by thirteen seconds.
On some occasions—depending on the amount of meth they just had—some try to boost two TV screens at once! Yesterday, Sharika Shanika Smith was observed just a waddling out into the parking lot with not one but two “home theater systems” in her rattling cart. I guess intellectual titans like Sharika Shanika figure that the stores are so big that no one would ever notice if just a few of “something” were wheeled out without paying. Fact is: Walmart didn’t get big by letting people like Sharika steal from them. Whatever, I hope the county keeps Ms. Smith and her silly name until she has learned her . . . oh, whatever . . . people like this are not smart enough to learn anything, much less learn complicated moral lessons like “I won’t steal no mo what ain’t mine.”
Come to think of it, since I seldom bother to even check on these crimes or the Billy Joe Methlabs and Bobbi Sue Boobjobs who commit them, perhaps they are the same whacked-out offenders who mindlessly recommit week after week after week after the same revolving door legal system turns them loose week after week after week.
Next time you are in a Walmart, if you want some free amusement, just stand in the well-named “home entertainment” section. Go where the high end stuff is located. Then, while you are waiting for furtive-looking, zit-faced candidates to show up, look around some corners real quick and see if you can spot the security lurking nearby. Generally, these are lean, clean lads who look totally out of place in a store of semi-humanoidal life forms. When you see two or more pill-poppers slowly wheeling out big screen TVs, two or more poppers who look like they might have a hard time rubbing four quarters together to buy a stick of beef jerky, much less enough dough for a $500 big screen, get that camera ready.
Note to Self: File the following under “Better Never Than Late.”
Has anyone else out there—and I am speaking to men only—has anyone else out there put on a pair of freshly laundered pants or shorts and found that they fit so perfectly that you either choose not to put on a belt or simply forget to? Then, half an hour later, when they finally get stretched out, you find that nothing on earth short of a heavy duty wench and crane can keep these pants or shorts from falling down over your bare butt? Well, such an event happened to me today at Walmart. Yep, when I left home I thought, “Ha, no need for a belt me . . . these shorts fit perfect.”
But Lo! As soon as I exited the car in the parking lot—BOING—I knew. Instead of driving back six miles to get a belt, I determined to suck it up. Even though it looked idiotic in the heat, I stuck my hands in my pockets and managed to keep the shorts up that way.
When almost into the store I was confronted by a gravitationally challenged woman, aka a morbidly obese blob. The woman was out of breath. She beseeched me to take her Courtesy Mobile Obesity Shopping Unit (electric bulldozer) back into the store for her. What can one say?
a) One can say “No!”
b) One can say, “You somehow managed to get in the store to fetch the bulldozer and be hauled around on it, now you can’t manage to take it back?”
c) One can say, “Look lady, I can’t even keep my pants up. I’m the one that needs help here!”
d) Or, one can say “sure,” which is what this Baldo Waldo said.
Whatever, without so much as a “thanks” from the puffing beluga I tried to drive the thing across the cross-walk and into the giant building. Seems that the blob so stressed the little machine that the battery had run down. And so, looking like even a bigger idiot than I already felt I was, there I sat while the scooter inched across the road going at about the same pace as a really fast snail might. I could not dismount and simply pull the thing along for fear my shorts would fall to my ankles. One can imagine the stopped cars waiting for me to finish the grueling marathon and the amount of laughter and cursing I generated.
“Look at that lazy piece of shit! He’s no more disabled than I am.”
“That bald fool should be ashamed of himself. Where’s your pellet gun, Tyler?”
“HURRY THE FUCK UP, YOU MOTHER FUCKER, OR I’LL RUN OVER YOU!”
Fortunately, a big friendly guy saw my dilemma and along with his laughing wife he pulled me into the store.
And so, as I slipped around Walmart with one of those fuggin defective shopping carts that pulls hard left and makes a major malfunction noise like it has a flat tire, I tried holding my shorts up without anyone noticing. Mostly, I was successful; the slow pace of shopping for food allowed me to discreetly keep a hand on a belt loop and still push the noisy cart.
A bit later I ran into the same Samaritans who had helped me; it was on the cookie aisle where I had a hankerin’ for strawberry wafers. They laughed out loud when I announced, “And here I am buying cookies! Maybe there’s an electric scooter in my future too.”
It was the trudge back to the car, however, that was awful. In addition to fighting the stupid shopping cart full of food across what seemed like a mile of blazing hot asphalt, the shorts acted as if they would fall down over my butt with every effing step. Whatever, I must have looked right at home among the geeks, freaks, sneaks, cheats, carnies, big screen TV boosters, meth scab pickers, and hairy butt-cracks at Wally World, for none noticed, thank god.
Moral: If the aliens and sub-humans at Walmart start staring, then you probably best just go home and gas yourself.