The Freezing World of Wal-Mart

WTF is this white stuff falling out of the sky? And how come I can see my own breath in this hotel room? I’m going back to bed.

For full effect, download “Baby It’s Cold Outside” by Zooey Deschanel and Leon Redbone, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. Also, please go turn up the thermostat, because I’m freezing my Royal Rastafarian Nenes off in here. (LTT)

I should have known to pack more than just running clothes and short-sleeved polos for this journey into what I am nicknaming the arctic’s little brother. Maybe it’s my body temperature being accustomed to the glory of good old SG, or maybe I don’t have any Eskimo heritage in my unknown family tree, either way, I’m freezing my tail off in this spud-monopolized territory.

For the record, I would like to add that I have journeyed out into the cold, dark world, to a place that for me is now a palatial haven. (Like that new word? Yeah, GRE flashcards, thanks a bunch Jo.) Kids, I’m referring to Wal-Mart; that glorified glory hole for the inbred redneck inside every one of us.

I think that at some point in all of our lives, we have been to the website, peopleofwalmart.com. If you haven’t, well then today is your lucky day. Go ahead, open a new tab and laugh yourself silly mocking the scantily clad, iron-fisted tweety-bird pajama wearing nutcases that somehow get their pictures posted all over the internet.

Go ahead, I can wait…





Statistically speaking, I’m willing to wager that 83% of the people plastered on that site come from the good old state of Idaho, and probably from the very same Wal-Mart that’s a good 100 yards away from the hotel room that I’m seated in, blogging away at this very moment. By the way, have I mentioned that it’s FREEZING IN HERE?! CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE START A BONFIRE IN THE WORKOUT ROOM FOR CRYING OUT LOUD?! I CAN’T FEEL MY THUMBS!?!

I have made a few pit stops over yonder in the world that Sam Walton created for all of us, and in those three journeys I will say that I’ve been clinging to my wallet and the inside of my coat for dear life and protection. There’s a smell drifting through the air when you walk in, so putrid, so foul, so alarming that your eyes start to water in pure fear. Plus, everyone is staring me down like I’m some odd man out, the brick that doesn’t fit. Maybe it’s because I’m not wearing black socks underneath my sandals, and look like I have shaved in the last month, I don’t know. Either way, I don’t fit in here. And why is EVERYONE IN THIS STORE WEARING COWBOY BOOTS?!

For the record, you’re not “Pulling. Them. Off.”

To be honest with you readers, I’m a little bit afraid for my life. Here it is three days in, and I’m already starting to question if I should make a legal will. Maybe that will be another post later this week. You know, now that I think about it, these are the kind of experiences that our Great-Grandparents use to scare the piss out of us when we think about what it was like growing up in the 1920’s.

Senile Grandma: “I remember the days when I used to have to walk to school, barefoot, uphill both ways, six feet of snow on both sides, and I never complained once. So you need to be grateful for what you’ve been given in your life thus far young man.”

When I’m that old, I’m gonna embellish the heck out of this one.