Dear Woman at Wal-Mart

I only wanted one card.  Just one fucking birthday card I had hoped to pick up real quick before a party.  I expected the usual bullshit – the classy line of customers that typically takes over the floors of this mega-store.  Folks are stopped in the middle of aisles with their carts full of purple soda pop and lowest ply bulk toilet paper.  They stand there talking about their cats and their kids like they’re at a social event when I just need to get two items and get the fuck out. 

“Well, Missy just got her third underage drinking ticket.  I told that girl Imma kick her ass out of the trailer if she can’t straighten up.”

“Now, which one is Missy?  Is that Billy’s baby or Ricky’s baby?  Why don’t she just move in with her daddy?” 

“I don’t know who her daddy is, Rachel Lee.”

 

And then there’s me, “Excuse me.  I just … I just need to grab this shampoo.”  Fuck; I hate this store. And yes, I am definitely judging those people.  If you don’t know this by now, you are clearly new to this blog. Welcome.  If you are offended, please remove the stick from your ass.

So, like I said, I expected those kinds of women – nothing new there.  I was, however, freshly irritated when I got stuck behind the elderly man in the hover-round with a case of Milwaukee’s Best in the attached wire cart.  Do you need that motorized machine because you’re disabled or you’re drunk?  Fuck, people.  Get out of my way old man.  I have a party to get to and I just need one card. 

At last, I made it to the card aisle.  I didn’t like any of the cards in the first section.  None of them said what I needed to say: “Happy Birthday.  I love you because you’re a bitch like me.  Now let’s get shitfaced and find some ass together.  I promise not to let you fuck anyone ugly tonight because I like you, my dear friend.”  

So, I turned the corner.  And there you were.  Holy fucking shit – there you were.  You were probably the same height as me – maybe even a little shorter.  I would have guessed somewhere between five foot and five foot three.  However, you easily had one hundred or more pounds on me, and you had no qualms over showing off that bountiful flesh.  You had on a tank top that I am assuming was formerly white, but now yellowed and stained.   The tank top rested just above your protruding muffin top – lots and lots of muffin top.  There really has to be a different term for what you had – soufflé skin or something.  I don’t know, but it wasn’t pretty.  I wanted to gouge my own eyes out with a fork, but it probably would have taken me another twenty minutes to make it to the kitchen section of the store.

You were wearing cut-off sweat pants.  They were frayed at the edges and barely covered your bulbous ass that threatened to approach me as I stood frozen and appalled in the aisle.  I could smell cigarettes, and first assumed the odor was attached to your “designer” clothing.  But then I looked at your hand to see that you were actually standing there smoking a cigarette right in the middle of Wal-Mart.  But that’s not even the best part because you were also barefoot.

So, I never even bought that card.  I turned the fuck around and hauled ass out of Wal-Mart.  I didn’t return to that store for six whole years.  Yet, your image remains forever etched in my head.  You are everything that is wrong with America.  Therefore, I expect to see you again soon when I turn on the television to find you now have your own reality show. 

 

You can check out more of the fine "People of Wal-Mart" here: http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/

I am not the only judgmental asshole out there.  Don't even try to tell me you've never judged.