In Illinois, Steve and I would get our groceries there every single Sunday. Pure torture: kids screaming; fat flesh hanging uncovered over elastic waistbands; 20,000 people packed into a warehouse trying to get a deal on Doritos. Anyway you add it up, it doesn't get much worse. When we moved back to Nebraska, we both decided for the sake of our sanity we wouldn't do it anymore. We haven't looked back.
But today I finally had to make a trip to the Rollback Hellhole. I love these Chicken Cordon Bleus that Antioch Farms makes. And since Hy-Vee has been out of them for three weeks straight now, it was my last resort. Desperate times call for desperate measures. It wasn't too crowded at noon on a Thursday: I only bumped into three people with my cart. But with Wal*Mart, it can not be a smooth shopping excursion: it's Murphy's Law for superstores.
There were only a couple checkout lanes open, so I picked the one that had a single person in it. Just as the conveyor belt finally made room for my items, she said to the cashier, "everything behind these milk cartons are price comparison items." And then I saw the balled up wad of ads in her hand. I realized why no one else was in her lane and made a beeline out of it.
This next cashier couldn't have been more than 11 years old. The customer was buying three TVs. Three times she flicked her light to have a manager come unclip the bungee cords tied around the boxes. "You can tell I'm a natural blonde," she said in embarrasment. No, actually, I couldn't, I just thought you were stupid. Also, you don't look old enough to handle those hazardous chemicals found in hair dye.
A cashier change later, it was finally my turn. The whole excursion took up the entiriety of my one-hour lunch break. Yes, driving to the Wal*Mart a mile from my work and buying Irish Spring soap and Chicken Cordon Bleus took that long. Don't even try to tell me you had a bad day. This errand single-handedly spoiled my