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Wal-Mart is like most everywhere else on this planet for a poor person. You go there to buy some cheap ass groceries, but you leave more broke, disheartened, and with the confirmation that, so far as society is concerned, you are (equivalent to) a vaginal disease.
Like most places you go as a poor person, the other clientele are mostly poor as well, except for one cheap bitch who takes up two spaces with her Mercedes while she goes in to snag some ridiculously cheap plastic shit to give as stocking stuffers to the Poor Children whom her church has adopted that Christmas. She hopes she can get in and out without having to look at or deal with too many Poor People, or be seen by anyone else from First Fucking Baptist. She doesn't have any bumper stickers on her Mercedes. Otherwise, it's all National Rifle Association and It's a Child, Not a Choice. We Poor People like our Guns and our Extra Mouths to Feed, as you know.
I park my decade old Corolla as close to this bitch's driver side door as I can possibly get it, then climb out to roll on up into the Wal-Mart.
As the rickety, slow glass doors part, I am accosted with the smell of industrial cleaner, but I don't have too much time to react to that because someone is raring up pretty heavy on my flank, I can hear the whir of the small engine, and I have to move out of the way before she motorized-carts right into my ass. I've got to give her a lot of room because she has her cane placed sideways across the basket in front of her like it's a battling ram. I understand. Shopping in Wal-Mart is war.
Surviving that, the first thing I see is the Wall of Pastry. This is everything that the hair-netted ladies of the Baked Goods department has produced within the last five hours. Well, closer to seven hours. Okay, about eight hours ago. Also, Krispy Kreme donuts. I want all of this shit, but I can't afford it.
Next, I see the fruits and vegetables section, which I also can't afford. Ever notice that Poor People can't afford fruits and vegetables? Ha ha, that's crazy right? Man. Ever notice that Poor People can't afford to be sick, either? Heh. Wow. Like, something's totally twisted about that.
Next I come to the beauty aisle. I for damn sure can't afford to purchase any of this shit, either. Ugly is free, bitches. Ugly is absolutely for free. So, I'm about 97% Ugly at this point, though I'm not for sure about that number because I can't afford to even look at a machine that will tell me some shit like that. Still, I decide not to buy their product because I'm seriously-for-real poor, not just "poor" in the delusional, middle class way that makes my article on the Huffington Post more relatable and sympathetic and funny.
I don't grab shit on my way through this stupid Wal-Mart and put it in my mouth because the security officers will absolutely detain my Poor Ass and have me arrested, and the last fucking thing I can afford as a seriously-for-real poor person is even more humiliation, or a lawyer.
Next I pass by the vitamin aisle and keep right on rolling. Shoot, I wish I could afford some vitamins. That might help me not get sick so I could keep working and afford some vegetables! There's another thin, poor woman in the vitamin aisle, using some broken reading glasses to read the label on some B vitamins. She'd probably like to have more energy. Her clothes look kind of ragged, and someone might mistake her for a homeless woman, but my heart breaks for her because she reminds me of my mother.
I keep going to the next aisle and there's a Wal-Mart worker I'd like to ask for help, but she looks like she's having none of it because she's been having to deal with Poor People all day, also rich bitches who park their Mercedes over the line, and she's more than likely got five hungry, sick kids to deal with at home, and it looks like her feet hurt, so I leave her the hell alone. Namaste.
I keep my face turned toward the candle display as I wheel it like a mother fucker past the electronics aisle because there's some Sick Bastard that's got a table set up there to get Poor People to sign up for satellite television services. I find this both hysterical and maddening. I signed up for satellite television services once, because Poor People have to do something to Escape Life, other than ride on our yachts. When I called to try and cancel it they wouldn't because I'm under a two-year contract, so now I don't eat as much, not vegetables or meat, so that I can honor my contract.
To wit, I've got a box of pasta and I'm ready to go through check out but, wouldn't you know it, the rich Mercedes bitch scoots in line just ahead of me with her cart full of All Manner of Cheap Crap, not just choking hazards for the Poor Children, but also Décor Crap that she can pass off as Belk. She sees that I only have a box of pasta, and though common decency would dictate that you let the Poor Person with the one fucking box of generic pasta go ahead of you when you are buying All Of Christmas, this bitch doesn't. 'Tis the fucking season.
A half hour later, I get up to the cash register. She's 57% ugly, but she's missing a tooth, so I think that takes her to, what?, 85% ugly? Do you get to have a handicap on this beauty game thing if you can't afford dental insurance? Is it like golf? What is golf like? I'm not sure, I think I may not have the right perspective on this. It doesn't matter though, because the one without the tooth is about to go on break, and the one with the five hungry kids and sore feet is about to take her place, so the manager is coming over to switch out the cash drawer. Look at all that money. I wonder what it would be like to have all that money, but then I snap out of it, pull out my debit card and hold my breath as I swipe it through the card reader thing sticking up in my face. The total is $1.47. I pray under my breath to Jesus, "Please let me have enough to pay."