Last night I did something that my wife warned me not to do...I went to Walmart. One word of advice for everyone reading this blog: Do not go to Walmart on a Sunday night. For that matter, don't ever go to Walmart.
Oh, don't get me wrong, I love Walmart. The store, the values, the selection, I even have some friends who work there. I love them too. But what I don't love are the people that shop there. I know, that sounds hypocritical because I shop there and if what I say is true then I must hate myself. Let me explain...
Yesterday, I entered our local Walmart at around 5:00 or so. I was cordially greeted by Oxygen Tank Bob and I grabbed one of the carts that he so dutifully blocked the aisle with. As I made my way to the grocery section, I navigated my way around three young women who were all clad in pajama pants and Steelers Jersey's playing football with a beef stick of some kind. At least I think they were playing football with it. The best part was that one of the females sported a mohawk with each side of her head painted pink. You know, the kind of girl Ben Roethlesberger would like to
Once safely to the deli area, I took a number (98) and saw that the next number on the deli helper sign was (81). Sensing that I had some time before they called my number, I made my rounds gathering items and placing them in my cart. Checking back in at the deli, they were now on number (96), so I thought I would wait. I left my cart briefly to check out the selection of meats in the case and when I turned around I saw that a family of Mexicans had decided that my cart must be the free sample cart from South of the Border. One little girl decided it was her duty to squeeze every item in my cart while her brothers, Hose A and Hose B, thought they would see how hard they could bang my cart into the dairy case. It was at this point that something primordial snapped inside my head.
From across the aisle, I yelled, "Get your hands off my stuff!" Now I have to admit that I didn't yell "stuff" but another word with four letters that begins just like "stuff" does. My question was involuntarily followed up by another question which, to the untrained ear, sounded a lot like, "What the hell is wrong with you?" With my two question outburst, all activity in and around the deli stopped. In addition, I was now standing face-to-face with "Carlos" the kids father. I knew his name was Carlos because that is what it said on his shirt. My kirbyoblongata was now telling me the next 10 seconds could go horribly wrong if El papa didn't like the way I was quizzing his offspring.
But Carlos did something I did not expect. He grabbed his children and brought them to me and made each one apologize for the way they acted. There was no fight. There was no offer to pay me in Chimmy Chongas for my inconvenience. Just three heart-felt apologies. And they went on their way.
I thought about this exchange all day today. I guess sometimes I don't like the people that shop at Walmart. That includes me...sometimes I don't like myself. Sure, those kids had no reason to violate my soon-to-be purchases, but I had no right to act like I did either. While I loathe the lack of manners displayed in society on a daily basis, especially at Walmart, I think maybe its time for me to stop worrying about the spec in everyone else's eye and maybe it's time for me to go to the Eye Doctor and see if she can't get this log out of my eye.
Be Well.
Bill
