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Apologies to Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, author of The Gulag Archipelago.
At the intersection of Northwest Expressway and Classen Boulevard in Oklahoma City stands the largest structure ever built by man (without the aid of aliens). It is roughly the size of Colorado. It is also the destroyer of worlds, small towns, and fine people. Before it was built, one could head north on Classen, make a left at the expressway, and there was Penn Square Mall. Places to eat, shops to buy things I didn’t need, and a movie theater, of which I was a patron.
During construction, major changes to streets were made, and without any regard whatsoever to common sense. All roads and streets were merged and became ONE. It led to only ONE place. Unneeded traffic lights were installed. Nonsensical arrows and symbols were painted on the streets. It was now impossible to navigate this Rube Goldberg maze without passing the great structure, the end of all things, the new Belle Isle Super Walmart. "The focus of evil in the modern world."
It is the business plan of all Walmarts to colonize an area, annihilate and exterminate any and all competitors, and then feed off the host properties and residents. All living things are eventually destroyed, and all the energy and wealth are drained and consumed. Then, the entity abandons the huge warehouse it had leased “for a thousand years” from some hapless developer. Like any demon-possessed predatory organism, the Walmart will move on to another host area and suck the life out of it too.
Here is a photo, never before released until this blog, of a Walmart Death Ray. I once saw a Target truck disabled on the interstate right above Belle Isle. From the roof of Walmart emerged a contraption that looked like something out of a Flash Gordon serial. The Target truck was vaporized -- just like in War of the Worlds (the good one, not the one that Tom Cruise and Dakota Screaming Fanning ruined).
There is one peculiar aspect of any Walmart. Once it has established itself, it cannot be undone. A Walmart is forever. Once open, it loses all regard for customer comfort, convenience and satisfaction. It knows it has us by that point, and the motto becomes Shop Here or Die. At one time I was a regular shopper. The store sold everything that has ever been invented or made in another country. Nothing, absolutely nothing sold in a Walmart is manufactured in the United States. When I shopped there, it took approximately three days to get through the store, but fortunately there were inns and pubs along the way.
In my travels, I noticed things, especially if I shopped late at night. That was my vain effort to avoid the Walmart People, the worst part of any Walmart experience. They are always there. Always. Like the low prices.
It is also at night that Walmart releases an army of stockers into the aisles. Boxes, cans and pallets fly with a furious crazed frenzy. Can you say tweeker? I know not, but the energy comes from some place; it ain’t natural. Of course most of the customers in any Walmart on any given day are also on some sort of mood enhancer or personality amplifier. No offense to myself.
The Belle Isle Super Walmart has about 50 check-out counters, and 47 of those are phony. Always. Tap on one of the “registers” some time. Cardboard from China, painted to LOOK like a cash register by skilled 3-year old artisans in Indonesia. Of the three registers that are real, one is always idle. Always. This accounts for perhaps the second most tortuous part of the Walmart experience: the eternal and infinite lines of fat huddled masses -- customers waiting to check out, yearning to breathe free, and who aren’t going to get out alive. Least not for an hour or two.
This reminds me. Ever notice near the “service” desk of a Super Walmart, there is row of shopping carts chock full of items (some formally frozen and likely to be returned to the freezers)? These baskets were abandoned by the shoppers who filled them. Customers who took one look at the checkout lines and decided they didn’t need all that stuff after all, so they left. We should LOL@Walmart for that “shrinkage,” which is their term for profit loss.
In truth, there is no profit loss at a Walmart. Anything left over from anything that can’t be sold is mixed and ground up with Walmart’s proprietary FΓΌd Prodduck®. The end result is Old Roy dog food. Did you know that hair from the floor of Walmart “salons” is swept up, baled, and made into wigs worn by country singer dolls that are sold at Branson? This is recycling, and it gives Walmart “green cred” with the hippies in Marin County.
The restrooms are also located near the “service” desk. Here’s another interesting fact. When people in really awful smelly Third World countries like Somalia encounter a really awful smelly restroom over there, they exclaim, “this toilet smell like restroom in Walmart! (may allah be merciful).” Yes. Always. The restrooms are not cleaned. Ever. The sign on the door, with names of attendants and times they cleaned? Fake. There are no restroom attendants or janitors in any Walmart. This is why every item or surface in every Walmart is sticky.
What’s more, the “sink” is really more of a trough, and it is physically impossible to wash one’s hands without touching the bottom of the sink. The sink also doubles as a urinal, but taking turns is encouraged by the Smiley Face on the wall. This gives Walmart “green cred” with the hippies in Portland, but it's nasty.
Not making this part up.
My last visit to any Walmart was on September 1, 2011. I needed an HDMI cable for the new blu-ray player I had to have, since I don’t actually own any blu-ray DVDs. Walmart had them, but they were bolted in with some kind of ghetto device that shoplifters probably know how to outwit. For several days I searched for a clerk, or a reasonable facsimile of a clerk, who might have some sort of key to unlock the HDMI cable. Finally, I spied two women at the electronics department counter, mere steps away from the cable. One was even the manager of the department.
Even though I was already frustrated, I waited for them to finish talking about someone I didn’t care about, but who also worked there. I asked them to unlock the cable so I could buy it. No, they couldn't help me. It seems they were “pulling registers”. Neither could spare ten seconds to assist me. One actually “hollered” for another clerk, a “Miss ----leen,” to come and help. Miss ----leen also must have been pulling registers. She never responded to the yells or the alternate method of summoning assistance in Walmart, the dog whistle. So I said I’d have to get one at Target. They shrugged. I was thinking post office? Department of Motor Vehicles? Worse.
The odd thing was they didn’t care. One must actually go inside one of these behemoth Super Walmarts to experience that level of unpleasant apathy. When I got home, I did what Brian Griffin of “Family Guy” recommends: I got on the internet and complained. Then I took what was practically a Masonic Oath never to enter a Walmart again.
We all know everything is cheap there. We all know why. To borrow part of a phrase, “all the books in the world could not contain" the entirety of Walmart’s malice, cruelty, indifference, and fatness.
For more than a generation, I’ve watched this company, which is Worse than Hitler. No offense to Hitler. To comply with Godwin's Law, we always need the requisite reference to Hitler or the Nazis. Always. Walmart invaded Poland. It has destroyed the small towns of America. Formally bustling downtown shops are vacant and useless, decorated only by the unintelligible spray painted ciphers of the gangster community.
Only a fraction of Walmartian evil is public knowledge. I suspect, though, that trading with Walmart is akin to doing business with I. G. Farben, the German industrial giant that profited from the slave labor at Auschwitz and other resorts during World War II. Whatever Walmart does to get all that crap into this country, and then sell it so cheaply – well, it can’t be nice.
I’m convinced America is fat because of Walmart. Millions have no work because of Walmart. I’m also convinced I will never again lighten or darken the doors of one of those smelly, ticky-tacky death camps. “Mr. Sam” Walton, a man I liked and admired, is turning over in his mausoleum. Even his beloved dog, Old Roy, is turning over in his dogoleum.
©2011 by Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood-DRK Enterprises – Prestige Worldwide
