God Wal-Mart Sucks

I was told to blog about Syracuse today. And I was. Until I visited the eastside Wal-Mart this week.

First of all, why does every backwoods, fat, nasty, scooter-riding lake trash from Little Axe have to shop there? If you do, put on some fucking clothes. That doesn’t mean size 24 nutters and a black tank top.

Hell, even getting to a parking spot is a gawddamn chore. Hey idiots, there are big-ass white arrows on the ground that show you which way the lane is supposed to go. Stop. Back up. Go the correct way. And by go the correct way, I don’t mean wait 10 minutes for that old lady to load her Buick so you can pull into a parking spot 7 feet closer to the store.

Wal-Mart should be aware of its customers inability to walk the 500 yards around its store and construct aisles more than 1.5 scooters wide. Perusing the potato chip and soda aisle with a shopping cart is like to trying to pass two U-haul trucks on a foot bridge — you have to pull to the side and wait for fatass to wheel on past.

And what’s the point of having 65 cash registers, 397 employees (40 of whom “work” in electronics), and four open lanes. There are more customer service managers with scrunchy key-chains than open lanes. It takes half an hour less to shop for two weeks worth of Train groceries (that’s a lot of food, FYI) than it does waiting in line for the homemakers jobless idiots to file through a novel of coupons and the GED failer to check said brainchild out.

Speaking of checking out, there needs to be a Norman cop at every express lane. If you pull up to the express lane with 25 items, said cop would be authorized to pull out his or her night stick and beat you senseless because you’re stupid and can’t count.

Now, to make this Syracuse related, I imagine Jim Boeheim will be a Wal-Mart greeter this time in 2020. His customer service manager? Eric Devendorf, but only until he gets fired for trying to get head from a 17-year-old tranny stocker named Robin.