Rollback These Prices! *points to crotch*

So I was at the mecca of all low class grocery and child labor made goods today. Yep that’s right, the creation made by our good friend Sam Walton, Wal-Mart. What a diverse and curious ensemble of people one will find at one’s local Wal-Mart. First, there’s the old man or woman at the front doors telling you to have a good day. They seem so full of cheer. I would be too if I were in my golden years trying to find out why I don’t have a more respectable occupation while I waste away greeting young punks who think they’ll take over the world while wearing Abercrombie shirts and upside down visors that happen to be backwards. Then you have the cashiers, who are also cheery. So cheery in fact that they would rather die than say “have a nice day” to me as I take the receipt for the off-brand cola I just bought. Next you have the stock boys, or men, I suppose. I can’t tell because they don’t have enough teeth for me to distinguish whether they are about to grow their adult chompers or whether they had too many bad experiences at the batting cages. But enough about the employees, what about the multicolored cacophony of people and things you’ll find. There’s the slow walkers, the loud talkers, the baby toters, the old-people-cart-motors, the whiny brats, the vegetable aristicrats, the yellow-dog democrats, the bargain shoppers, the lane hoppers, the lobster tanks, the white trash skanks, the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker; just to name a few. I saw some chick today with her baby in one of those front loading harness things. I’m sure the kid just loves that. “Hello,” he’s thinking if he had the ability of coherent speach, “I’m facing away from the boobies; this isn’t right.” They looked like they were about five minutes away from a tandom jump. I thought parents wanted to reduce the amount of vomit that exudes from their spawn. At his age and view point it’s probably like sitting in the front of Batman the Ride at Six Flags after three chili dogs and two funnel cakes. But you know what you never see while you’re at Wal-Mart? The manager, that’s what. Ah, the manager, put in charge of all affairs at your local Supercenter. The only problem with it is that it’s like the freaking Wizard of Oz when it comes to finding these people; they sit in some back room conducting managerial duties (read: marvel at how nifty the security cameras are) behind a veil of secrecy. You wanna know why? Because who in their right mind would hold their head high to say, “Yes, I’m the manager of store number five-billion, seven hundred thirty-two thousand, three hundred twenty four. What do you do?” No one says that because it’s rediculous; because every night when that guy gets off work he hits a fork in the road with one path leading home and other to Al’s 24 Hour Gun Emporium. End it buddy, they’re going to lay you off anyway, and you’ll end up working the door when you’re seventy-five trying to get that darn yellow smily face from haunting your dreams. Now don’t get me started one Target….overpriced crap hole full of yuppity yups…