December 11th, 2017
Last night, in an ill-conceived plan to avoid traffic and crazy people, I decided to take a trip to my (not exactly favourite place) Walmart. Walmart, on a normal people schedule is a hotbed for insanity, where all your deepest, most perverted, stabby nightmares live and breathe and clog up the cheese aisle with their sticky offspring. So 9 p.m. on a Sunday night is going to be deliciously, decadently free of such wanton depravity, am I right?
Turns out, no, I am not right.
I should've gauged the situation the second I entered the underground parking lot to see pockets of dazed, zombiesque individuals lurking around randomly, with no apparent purpose, peering into empty carts and glancing around like they're hiding from something. Then there's the occasional car driving through empty parking spaces like the car equivalent of "dance like there's no one watching".
Since the place was nicely empty, I parked near the escalator for the sake of a) laziness, and b) I'm a lady who doesn't enjoy the notion I might get pummeled into unconsciousness and thrown into the back of some serial killer's Trailblazer (because you know it's always a Trailblazer) if I park away from the entrance at night. I made my way upstairs and inside to the safety of the....uh, yeah. No. The inside was just as perplexing.
I bade a cheerful "good evening!" to the security guy on the door, who looked a lot like an ex-boxer only less charming, and was gifted with a look that suggested that not a lady, but slimy, bulbous slug had addressed him. Which...truthfully, I wasn't dressed as my best self or anything but I wasn't that bad.
I wheeled my retarded cart that squealed like it was being tortured and tickled at the same time, around the grocery section, avoiding the plethora of inexplicable Indian ladies who seem to frequent the WalMart at night (probably thinking wrongly, like me, that they'd avoid the crazies) and weird, solo, furtive looking dudes who seem nervous all the time, and that guy who likes to stand in the produce section fingering kiwis.
The fruit that is, not New Zealanders. Just so we're clear.
While waiting in line at the cashier, with my fantastical booty of kitchen sponges, brussel sprouts, bread, tonic water, and the big bag of chips I'd procured as payment for my ordeal, some dude ambled up behind me and picked up the hoodie I'd placed on the conveyer with the rest of my loot. Like MY hoodie, I was planning to fork over twelve goddamn dollars for. I gave him the Assassin look of "Oh no you di'nt!" thinking he'd pee his pants in terror and put it right back, but no. No, he starts looking at it and checking the other side of it like he might want to buy it.
Um. No, guy. That is MY hoodie. I snatched it out of his hands with the authority of someone who is so in charge of matters. I don't think so, hoodie stealing fucknut. Then he had the audacity to suggest I was being rude.
Seriously. This is Walmart in a nutshell to me. Cheap groceries and hoodies, and deranged fucknuts who'll steal your shit right off the conveyer.
I then drove home on empty roads (AWESOME!) singing ABBA loudly, and stopped in the harbour to admire the Christmas lights, the end.
There is no point to this story except to say, what the actual fuck?
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So. People have nudged me about my total ineptness at updating this thing and they are correct. It's just, I don't have a life reall...
"fingering kiwis" - the fruit not the people of New Zealand, of course why would there be a gathering of New Zealanders at your Walmart?
ReplyDeletesorry I got stuck there for a moment during my read and am very glad you clarified this.
Good to read that it ended well. Except for that your hoodie now it has this memory attached to it. Just curious - had that meddler commented on the hoodie without touching it. Would you have responded? and been alright with the situation? Of course your post would not have been as interesting.
Well we do get a surprising number of AUSTRALIANS here so why not Kiwis! There are also an abundance of those little odd looking Mitsubishi Delica vans that look like they'd tip over in a breeze and they are all right hand drives, as people import them from Australia. I don't know why. It's bizarre. As for the hoodie, don't you touch my hoodie stranger man. But yeah touching it is way more brazen than just making a comment I think.
ReplyDeleteYou washed that hoodie as soon as you got home, right?
ReplyDeleteIt is in the laundry yes. :)
ReplyDeleteWalmart frightens me. If you live in a city, it is where all the mental cases hang out. If you live in a middle of nowhere small town, it's where people go to just wander around in a sad daze when they've got nothing to do. "Let's go walk around Walmart". Eww.
ReplyDeleteCora: My Walmart is surprisingly not terrible compared to some I've been in. But yeah, you do get some types and they are fascinating to me. I have to go there as I use their print centre for my stuff (they do a fantastic job I can't quite believe it!) and so I can't really avoid it. I think before I started using them, I'd been maybe twice a year if that. :)
ReplyDeleteOh my hell. I laughed until I almost peed my pants. So, in a sense, you were successful at making someone pee their pants. Almost...twice. What a fucknut! Like when you are in line, it is claimed. All other times, he could finger the kiwis and hoodies on the racks. Makes me rethink kiwi buying for sure.
ReplyDeletePS I love Walmart. It's like work memories. I can go there to see all my old clients from the cop life. Bwahahahaha! Sad thing is, I can blend in and no one knows who I am. Wait. That did not sound right. You just need a hoodie, right?
ReplyDeleteMomma: Get some dry pants NOW woman. I don't know what it is. As a cop person I'm sure you must have answered a Walmart call at some point. I mean the law of averages dictates some shenanigans HAD to go down there sometime...
ReplyDelete