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One Day In A Wal-Mart
Now, before I start, I have to say something. There’s a certain part in here regarding a certain article of women’s clothing, that begins on page 12. Now, the idea for this section was provided by my friend Samantha. So… Don’t get the wrong idea. When I asked her for something to include in here, she said the character should wear pantie hose. Yes, that's the kind of people you'll find where a live. But I digress. The part in question is a little risqué, so reader discretion is advised. Oh also, I personally cannot stand the Jonas Brothers, I just used them for comedic effect. All relevant information pertaining to the band was provided by my four year-old sister. No offense to anyone that enjoys their music of course, but… I'm sorry and mourn your loss of musical taste.
You pull in, and look around. Whip out your binoculars and scan the parking lot. Coyotes howl. Tumbleweeds roll. Then… Ah ha! A parking spot! You stomp on the gas pedal, speeding towards the space… Only to be beaten at the last second by the jerk in the flashy Nissan Altima. You give the guy the finger before you resume scanning. Slowly, you cruise around the parking lot, like a lion stalking prey.
Suddenly, you see it. An empty parking space! You ram on the gas again, about to pass in front of the building. And there he is. It’s the one old man who always seems to get lost in the middle of the crosswalk. He gazes around, looking confused. You honk your horn a few times, hoping to get his attention, but he doesn’t move. He just stares at you. You honk some more, and rev your engine menacingly. Slowly, you began to drive toward him. He doesn’t move. Now you’re just a couple feet away, and he finally seems to notice you. He stares at you as he slowly begins shuffling across the road, seeming to take an eternity. Out of the corner of your eye, you see another car pull in to the parking lot. You eye your parking space with a hungry look in your eye.
Grandpa’s still trudging slowly, and you start to get nervous. That is your parking space; you’re not going to let some newcomer get it. Your foot begins to twitch on the gas pedal nervously, and you release a soft whimper. The newbie’s coming closer; soon he’ll see your spot. Finally, the old man is across! Without hesitation, you speed toward the parking space and your destiny.
You’ve got your parking space, and the newcomer didn’t. Life is good. Now, it’s time for the real adventure to begin.
You approach the doors; those magical portals to your happiness.
“Open sesame,” you say aloud to the doors. Of course, they slide open. Grinning, you step inside, feeling proud of yourself. You accept a cart from the strange woman that always smells like perfume a la dead fish. Wrinkling your nose in distaste, you hurry through the next set of sliding doors.
Once inside, your nostrils are assaulted by a plethora of smells: fast food, lotion, sweat, and more. Strolling past the commoners, or cashiers, as some call them, you proceed straight to the produce section.
You spend minutes agonizing over the perfect apple to buy. It has to be firm, and with no blemishes. Also, it has to be only one color. Two colors simply won’t do. However, none of them meet your high standards. Sighing, you put the apple back. The poor soul that buys that imperfect apple will at least have the honor of sharing germs with you.
Next stop is the deli section. Behind a glass counter dim with condensation, a crew of sweaty women works to slice meat and cheese. You order a pound of ham, specifying that you want it “not too thick and not too thin.” Of course, this simple request isn’t simple enough. When you’re handed your Ziploc bag of meat, it’s too thick. Glaring at the woman who handed you the meat, you walk away, gripping so hard your knuckles turn white.
After the deli comes the snack aisle. As you expected, some mother with her four kids are already there. Little brats. You keep your cart a safe distance away, as there’s no telling what of diseases they’re carrying. You grab a box of Little Debbie Fudge Rounds, and check the fat content. You almost faint at the number; it would ruin your Hasselhoffian figure! You hurriedly cram the box back at an awkward angle, as if by touching it, you could gain weight. Let the ignorant mother who doesn’t care about her children buy snack cakes. They’ll all probably die of heart attacks before they’re forty.
You back out of the aisle, and start heading for the soup, when suddenly, you see him. Your mortal foe. It’s the jerk in the Altima that took your parking space! He hasn’t noticed you yet though. Abandoning your cart, you creep up behind him. He’s examining a package of hot dogs. You sneer at him. He deserves what you’re about to do simply for even considering eating those horrid things. Grabbing a bottle of Smucker’s jam, you quietly open the lid, removing the safety seal. You tap the fellow on the shoulder. As he turns around, you squirt jam all over him and his Tabasco-themed tie. Then you plead ignorance.
“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry,” you say, “I was going to ask you to open it for me! I guess someone must’ve opened it before. Oh, some people can be so inconsiderate!” He nods, and says he understands, and you put the bottle back on the shelf. However, as one final act of revenge, you put a hand on his shoulder as you apologize one last time. At least, that’s what he thinks. You wipe the traces of the jam that remained on your hands off on his back. Snickering, you return to your cart.
Clearly, Wal-Mart holds nothing of value for you today in the food section, so you trot off to the clothing aisle. You blush when you realize that you’re staring at the half-dressed models. You scan the racks, and then examine the clothes. You find a bargain on some Family Guy boxers. Spongebob is getting a little small... You simply must see how you look in it. After all, no sense in only letting the other patrons see your amazing fashion sense. You go into the dressing room, slamming the door behind you. The door bounces off with a crash! In horror, you realize that the lock is missing! Now, you’ve never understood why someone would want the latch to a dressing room door, but, clearly, they do. Now, you have to twist at an awkward angle to keep the door shut. This makes removing your shirt extremely difficult. You’ve just managed to get it off, when you hear the sound you’ve been dreading. Footsteps.
Your blood turns to ice. What if they try to come into your stall? You try to calm your breathing; predators can sense fear. Slowly, the footsteps come closer. You can see the shadow of someone just outside your door. You begin to pray. Suddenly, you feel a light tug at the door. You give a small cough, and the pressure recedes.
“Sorry!” calls a voice from outside.
“It’s OK!” you reply, trying to calm your breathing. You’ve survived, at least for now. You’ve accomplished one thing, though. Those boxers are wonderful and Stewie never looked so good!
Striding out of the dressing room with a new bounce and in your step, you grab your cart and continue on your way. Over the speakers, you hear the sound of a million bags of cats being slammed against the wall. No, wait. That’s the just the sound of industrial metal band Nine Inch Nails. However, the Jonas Brothers did just release a new album…
You push your distinctively empty cart to the back of the store, where the electronics are kept. It is there that you find yourself in the presence of true greatness. Big screen TV’s stretch as far as the eye can see. And playing on every single one of them? The Dukes of Hazzard. It’s like a dream come true. On all sides, it’s Jessica Simpson. You’re drawn away from your reverie by the sole thing more important: video games.
You scan for the newest titles: The Even More Elderly Scrolls: Nursing Home Edition, Final Fantasy 123,456, and Rock! Paper! Scissors! the video game. However, much to your chagrin, none of them are there. Feeling depressed, you mosey on over to the CD section, hoping to find that new Jonas Brothers CD. Of course, the last copy has already been taken. And by who?
Why, some snot-nosed little kid, of course. Most likely, it doesn’t even appreciate true music. But you’re burnin’ up for that music, so you hold on. After all, that’s just the way you roll. You’re sure that you and that CD will be inseparable, at least until you have to say goodnight and goodbye.
So, you approach the mother of the little wretch, hoping to convince her to give you the CD. After all, you’re willing to pay a decent price. She gives you some fake argument about how it’s a birthday present, and she can’t give it away. Rolling your eyes, you just leave, disgusted.
You’re passing by the women’s clothing section again, when you hear them. Calling. You glance over, and there they are. Panty hose. Slowly, you push your cart over and gaze at them. What would it be like? You shake your head, ashamed of the thoughts, thinking instead of Jessica Simpson.
Wait, bad idea. You block those thoughts, and they return to the clothing in front of you. Tentatively, you reach out a hand. Who would ever know? Completely forgetting the security camera, you slowly tear open the bag, sliding the delicate garment out.
As if in a reverie, you remove your khaki shorts, and slide on the hose. It’s a strange feeling. You can’t move much, and it’s rather uncomfortable. Your claustrophobia kicks in. Then you look down.
You’re admiring yourself when you look up to see the mother from the snack aisle staring at you in horror. Hurriedly, she covers two of her four children’s eyes. The other two cover their own eyes.
Blushing a shade of red unknown to Crayola, you stutter an apology. You slide your shorts back on, forgetting that the hose go down longer than the shorts, and remain visible below them.
Mustering your last shred of dignity, you waddle off, with the mortified family still staring. Eventually, you glance back to see her talking to a security guard and gesticulating wildly towards you. Your awkward pace quickens. You think you’re safe, when you hear a voice shout “Stop, thief!”
Now, there are few things scarier than a large black woman with dreadlocks and a taser, and at the moment, that’s who’s pursuing you. You abandon the cart, and start to run when the panties get the better of you and you topple to the floor. At this point, the woman who looks like Whoopi Goldberg is standing over you, and you’ve never been more embarrassed. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.
Luckily, the manager of the store happens to be your cross-dressing uncle, who can sympathize with your situation. You manage to escape the store unscathed, albeit a little humiliated. As you’re driving home, you congratulate yourself. This trip went better than the last one! Still, there’s no telling what’ll happen next time. And, at the very least, you gained one thing: a ridiculous story for English class.