Dirty Little Secret

I love Walmart. There - I said it.

Go ahead. Mock me, taunt me, shout it out:

"They drive American companies out of business!"
"They work their employees just below full-time to avoid paying benefits!"
"Their shoppers are card-carrying hill-jacks!"

I know, I know, I've heard all that, and much more. I feel so ashamed. I'm sure this makes me a terrible person. And a card-carrying hill-jack.

I feel naughty…dirty…almost like I deserve some jail-time.

But I don’t care what anyone says. I’m coming out of my Walmart closet. I mean, if that place doesn’t have it, do you really need it? Where else can you get milk, pickles, tires, underpants and live bait? All at the same store, all cheaper than dirt, and all after 2 a.m. last call?

Very few of my friends admit to shopping there, those La-Dee-Da Princesses. Oh, no - it’s only Target for their highnesses. If I dare mention Wally World and all the money I save, they scoff, laugh, and generally call me Wanda Whitetrash.

The La-Dee-Da Princesses try, from time to time, to talk some sense into me, try to have Target interventions. They speak of reasonably-priced designer clothes, fair trade, responsible corporations…blah, blah, blah.

But look! There, across the street, with the white letters! Cheaper Stuff! More stuff! Stuff probably made in China. (By little children. With lead paint. Sigh.)

I think it’s the bright lights that suck me inside, in addition to the "rollback," prices, I mean. Those Walmart ceiling lamps burn with the heat of a thousand suns, but somehow they make the cheap crap for sale look ever-so-appealing. And they make people look like cheap crap.

It’s true: Everybody's ugly at Walmart.

No wonder someone created an entire website, www.peopleofwalmart.com, devoted to mocking the store’s worst-looking clientele. The glaring, blaring lighting, combined with the “gotta-run-to-Walmart-real-quick” attire spawns this hideousness.

For example, there’s always that one guy.

You know the guy. You’ve seen him. He's just crawled out from under the car/house/trailer, and he generally needs oil/screws/nuts to finish the job. Dressed in his finest sleeveless 1988 Poison t-shirt and greasy jeans, he's come to Wally's for his quest.

Trouble is, this outfit has not fit him since ‘88. So, while he’s squatting down in aisle 36 looking for oil/screws/nuts, we can see half of his oil/screws...well, you catch my drift.

I’ll admit it. I have been that guy, er, gal. Yep, during desperate times - and midnight children's Tylenol runs - I've wandered the store in pajama bottoms, bed-head and Poison t-shirt with the worst of them. Didn’t care one bit that I looked like a crazed, middle-aged Brittney Spears in need of a bath, fresh hair-color and some crystal meth.

Why? Because my fevered babies only take the cherry Tylenol and the grape popsicles, and that pukin’ flu done gone and run me out of paper towels.

Ya'all had better get out the WAY. I am a person of Walmart.