Saturday, August 29, 2009

Mal-Wart: Your Home For Cheap Plastic Shit.

I won’t go to Mal-Wart unless I need a lot of stuff and do not feel like driving around town to several different places. I need dog chews so I might live another day, I need oil change stuff, I need a filter for my vacuum cleaner, I need some Goody’s Powers, and I need kitchen sponges. I like the kind with a sponge on one side and a scrub pad on the other. Either I can go to one place and get it all or go to several places and waste a lot of time shopping. It’s not the shopping that’s so bad but the checking out. I hate that part of it. Rarely can you just walk up and exchange money for stuff, and that be it. More on that later, I assure you, it’s coming.
I went to the Y this morning for Yoga and one of the women in the class brought a twelve year old with her. Her husband ( and yes, she told the entire class why she brought the kid, and gave us details we didn’t need, and yes, that is all part of why I wrote this, because other than going out with a large caliber automatic weapon that spews out superheated plasma charges in the general direction of morons, I write), anyway, her husband told her he wasn’t watching the kid because he wanted to mow grass but he was still sleeping in when she left. Damn, woman, just leave the kid at home, and let him wake your husband.
The kid is this bulging self absorbed little twit who is hooked up to one of those hand held games. He doesn’t realize, or he doesn’t care, he has to speak rather loudly to hear himself over the sound of his earbuds. “MOM I GOT TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!” “MOM I JUST GOT TO LEVEL NINETY-EIGHT!” “MOM CAN YOU HOLD THIS WHILE I STEAL YET ANOTHER MOMENT OF YOUR LIFE FROM YOU SO YOU WILL FOREVER BE OBLIGATED TO SERVE ME?” I just wanted to walk over and slap the shit out of him for treating her like that.
I knew better than to go shopping today. I knew there would be trouble after the disharmonious Yoga class. It began as soon as I stepped out of the truck, and there was a hypodermic needle lying in the parking lot. In South Georgia, no shoes no shirts no problem, but it’s the no shoes thing that might hold sway here. It’s creepy to find a needle. Always.
Because it’s barely after nine the place isn’t crowded, but there are always those idiots who cannot stay out of the way of those of us who are actually trying our best to get in, get the stuff, and get out. People in South Georgia think Mal Wart is an event for the whole family so they’ll have a family reunion in aisle three. I have to go around them because getting them to get the hell out of the way might mean they would have to have some semblance of courtesy.

Of course they do not have the oil or air filter I need, and I have to cross reference my number with their manual which is bigger than the annotated edition of the Independent Southern Baptist King James edition of the Holy Bible. I brought in my little note pad so I could write the number down, and after I find my number, so redneck wades in and tries to remember his number and can’t. He has to look it up again and before I can offer him the use of my notepad, he tears the whole page out of the Independent Southern Baptist King James edition of the Holy Bible catalog of oil and air filters and that way he doesn’t have to remember anything.

Remember what I said about check out? Okay, there is a woman, one woman, in front of me at the checkout in the Garden Center. I almost, very nearly, bail, because she’s got a lot of stuff, and the cashier looks less than inspired. Worse, her fellow employees are morons. One wades into the middle of the sale for a price check, and a discussion as to whether or not the price on the tag is the right price. Apparently less –than- inspired-chick is the keeper of the keys, because someone asks her what key unlocks what lock to get the bikes out ( this will show up very soon, and not in my favor) and finally someone calls her on her cell phone and she has to answer it or life as we know it will end.
Remember the bike? Seem while the woman ahead of me was putting all her cheap plastic shit on the counter to be rung up, her mother was trying to buy a bike. Not a real bike, mind you, but one of those tiny kid’s bikes that will last a week or so before it gets destroyed. They have to discuss this and I ask them if perhaps they should make their purchasing decisions before they get into the line which is supposed to be for buying, not deciding.
“It’s for his birthday!” the mother huffs at me, and very nearly I told her for his birthday she could take that piece of crap bike and stick up her very large butt. To push me over the edge, she then pulls out a check to pay for it all.

It occurs to me people will let their kids take over their lives to the point it interferes with their health. It causes people to overfeed the little bastards, and obviously some of them aren’t exercising enough. It occurs to me we’re spending way too much money on them, and getting far too little in return for it. It occurs to me one day these people will be adults, and all I can truly hope is they all have children of their own.
Take Care,
Mike

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