Tag: walmart

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One Day After: The Parade Of Slovenly Zombies And The Flannel PJ People


The hype season is upon us. Thanksgiving is in the rear view mirror, and everything is Christmas, and it started in October. Walmart skipped Thanksgiving and Halloween and went from summer to Christmas. Which is fine by me. I only visit that store when forced, and I was forced against my will a few days before Thanksgiving to accompany my wife for prescriptions and a few last-minute grocery items for the Turkey dinner with the family on Tuesday instead of Thursday, which we spent eating lunch with her brother, who is living in a rehab center in Dallas.

Every person in Granbury seemed to be there, thinking they were saving money, which is the big trick that the Waltons pull on the public. They mark some things way-way-bottom down low, and then raise the price on others, tricking the poor shopper into believing they are getting a great deal and saving their hard-earned money, or EBT money, which is really mine and your taxes financing all those overflowing baskets of junk food, hair extensions, and fancy dragon-lady fingernails.

I did notice more young women in full bedtime attire this year: jammy-bottoms and tops, along with fuzzy house slippers; some of them should have at least combed their hair and brushed their teeth. One girl had a long string of toilet paper dragging behind her PJs. What is wrong with women these days? They think it’s fashionable to come to a public place in their sleepwear? They look like morons. One older lady was wearing a Pioneer Woman house robe, a shower cap, and hospital socks, the kind with the little rubber bottoms so you don’t slip and fall. She was pushing a basket full of Pork Rinds and Dr Pepper, which, here in rural Texas, are considered one of the survival food groups, along with coldbeer and baloney.

Thinking back, decades ago, in the mid-1950s, I would accompany my mother to the grocery store, Piggly Wiggly, which was her favorite haunt. I would see women with their hair in rollers, peddle pushers, KEDs, and nice blouses. There was always a cigarette hanging out of their mouth, which made them look a bit sleazy, but back then, everyone smoked and used hair rollers. My mother loved to smoke; she was a world champion and would have a burning one in her mouth and one in each hand, ready to replace the other. She had a lot of big hair, so there would be at least two dozen rollers of all sizes shaping her follicles into a work of art. It seemed that these women all knew each other. They would stop and say, “Look at yeeew, how’s your mama and them? Did you get a new dress, or is that hair color just darlin, makes you look ten years younger and as cute as a Christmas puppy?” This went on for hours, as the ice cream melted and the meat grew dangerous E. coli bacteria, and I lost a large part of my childhood that could never be reclaimed. At least they didn’t wear pajamas.

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The Retail Rebel: A Fugitive’s Tale


A Wanted Man On The Run

I’d Like To Settle Down But They Won’t Let Me…A Fugitive Must Be A Rolling Stone…Down Every Road There’s Always One More City…I’m On The Run. The highway is My Home.

Years ago, when I lost my social filters after a fainting head-planting fall from our hot tub, my once kind demeanor has vanished in blocks. There are post office quality pictures of me in Lowes and Home Depot, saying ” Do Not Wait On This Old Man, He Is A Retail Verbal Assaulting Fugitive, Call Your Manager Immediately.” And, they do, if they recognize me. I’ve become quite good at disguising my appearance: caps, sunglasses, different beards, band-aids, creams, crutches, walkers – anything that will throw them off so I can do my shopping. Now, Walmart, my last bastion of shopping, might be adding me to their list of undesirables, rejects, lunatics, and mentally deranged. All because of an overcharge on Bird Peanuts.

Wallmart might be the best in reatail at miss-pricing their items. I found a large bag of Bird Peanuts, which I usually buy at H.E.B. mainly for the Blue Jays and Crows, who turn their black beaks up at anything other than good old Texas Roots Legumes. The sign beneath the box said $7.57 for seven pounds of Peanuts, a bounty of a bargain considering H.E.B. wants over $2.00 for one pound. My wife, Momo, checked out, not paying much attention to the ring up. Arriving home, she discovered the bag of peanuts cost almost $15.99, and that’s when my remaining filter evaporated through my right ear and blew out the back door like a vanishing fart.

It was a long, sleepless night of tossing and turning. Eventually, I drank two hot cups of Ovaltine, which usually calms my nerves and elicits sleep, but nope, not this night. I sat in the dark, planning my strategy for how I would confront the customer service representative about the outrageous overcharge. Common sense was non-existent, my Christian faith waned, and my carnal instinct took over; I was out for righteous vengeance, and it would be mine.

I awoke at dawn, fueld by caffine and what little testosterone is left in my body, I was anxious for battle. I arrived at Walmart as the senior citizen greeter unlocked the door. ” Good morning, sir,” she said in her four-pack-a-day rasp. I growled and headed for the customer service counter.

The young girl behind the counter was kind, sweet, doe-eyed, and wore a cross hanging from her neck. My vengeance and blood lust disappeared. How could I crawl from the trenches and attack this sweet child? I explained the problem, which now seemed embarrassingly insignificant, and she was kind and understanding, offering my money back without question and a big, toothy smile along with a “have a blessed day.” I did notice behind the counter many post office-quality posters of old people like me, who are prohibited from shopping at Walmart. I’m safe for now. But there is always next week, and I will be sure to give them one of my better photographs.

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Caught by a Girl Scout: A Cookie Sales Encounter At The Walmart


Walking into Walmart this morning to pick up my meds, I was accosted, not by a panhandler or some poor schmuck with a sob story, but by a cute eight-year-old girl selling Girl Scout cookies. She wouldn’t take no for an answer and “had” all the answers. This little waif, hands on her hips and a defiant gleam in her eye, actually blocked my entrance into the Walmart. Standing in front of me like a little David about to punch Goliath, she meant business. I couldn’t bump her out of the way, so I was forced to engage her. It was all a grand scheme. Standing behind a table stacked with boxes of cookies were four Mama Bears, arms crossed, foot tapping, just waiting for me to decline. They all had that ” Just try to get out of this one” look on their face.

” I don’t have any money,” I pleaded.

” We take credit and debit cards,” she chirps. When did this start? Does every kid have a credit card machine in their backpack?

” I’m diabetic and could have a seizure,” I add.

“No problem mister, we have sugar and gluten-free,” she sneers.

I’m trapped. Twenty adults are staring at me as if I am a criminal. I hand her my Visa card, and she rings up five boxes of cookies and a twenty percent tip to boot. I take my cookies and walk to my car, fearing they will grab me again on the way out. I’ll be having cookies for supper.

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Dispatches From the Cactus Patch


Vincent

Christmas is upon us; it will come and then be gone in a flash. A full year of hype and anticipation will be kaput in twenty-four hours. There will be the usual big letdown after the presents are unwrapped, the eggnog is gone, and Zuzu tells her Dad, “Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets their wings.” That darn movie makes me a blubbering idiot. With age, some of us lose our filters. I fear all of mine are long gone. I’m apt to say anything at any time and am completely politically incorrect. Just ask the folks at Home Depot; my picture is posted at all the service counters. Same thing at Lowes.

I was in H.E.B. with Momo a few days back, me pushing the cart and her shuffling along on her fancy walker with a seat, 4 wheels, and 2 handbrakes. Her new and improved bionic knee is almost healed and ready for butt-kicking action. We ambled down the pet food aisle to purchase bird seed, and I found myself tearing up, thinking about my little dog Winnie, who’s been gone for two years. I will likely sniffle and snuffle at anything these days, especially around Christmas. I blame it on a lack of old-guy testosterone or the lesser grade of Kentucky bourbon; I recently changed to a cheaper brand; times are tough in the cactus patch. Maybe Santa will bring me some George Dickell. Standing in the checkout line, this nice lady behind me taps my shoulder. ” I know you two,” she says. She is a fellow Plano Wildcat from the 1960s. Her father and my father were good friends back in the day. Good to see an old high school classmate since there aren’t that many of us left. The shopping trip was a shocker. Half a basket of foodstuff, a few household items, and some allergy pills, all for $230.00. It might be cheaper to eat all of our meals at McDonald’s; those dollar burgers aren’t that bad once you get past the first bite, and with an adult Happy Meal, I get a toy that might be a plastic Unicorn that farts glitter or one of those goofy big-eyed girls from Frozen. I would rather have a drink coupon for the brewery on the square.

We made a trip to Walmart to pick up meds. The parking lot was packed. Inside, there were people everywhere, snarling, pushing, grabbing, and yelling. A young girl speeds down the aisle on a stolen Barbie Bike and almost takes out an old guy riding a personal scooter. He dodged her at the last second but rammed an old lady and her cart from behind. The old gal takes a baguette of fresh, warm French bread from her cart and beats him about the head, cussing a blue streak between whacks. The poor man’s wife pulls out her iPhone and starts filming the assault. It will likely be on TikTok or YouTube by this evening and get ten thousand views, and they will make a load of cash, just in time for Christmas. Good to know the spirit of the season is alive and well. The Salvation Army red kettle was at the front door, and a teenage boy and girl, instead of an older adult, were ringing the bell. I’m a sucker, so I push some legal tender into the kettle. I hope they use it wisely. I saw half a dozen women in their pajamas and slippers. Last year, I saw only two. What’s up with that? Then I remembered I was wearing my $5.00 pair of Goodwill white painting pants covered with acrylic paint spots. Momo kept her distance. I should have put a bandage on my right ear to complete my outfit.

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More Worthless News and Folklore From The Texas Cactus Patch 5-26-2023


I don’t have a current picture of myself, but this resembles my classic Wild Bill Cody look these days, only my hair is much longer and whiter, my teeth sparkle like a jewel, and I walk with a cane thanks to botched back surgery. At times, I carry a sidearm Colt 44, just in case things go south, as they often do here in Texas. It’s too hot to wear buckskin, so shorts and Tee Shirts make up my Western clothes.

So much for boycotts generated by the LGBQRSTUVWXYZ clothing. We Drove by Walmart this morning at 8:30 AM; the parking lot was full. Same driving by a Target in Fort Worth a few days ago, and full lot. I guess we Texans ain’t as tough as we put on to be. I did read that a father went berserk in a local Target and tore down the display and its sign, scattering those cute little grooming duds all over the aisle. He’ll likely get six or more years in the same prison the J-6th killers are housed in. The local Walmart is having its tax-free weekend and they are running a special; any gang of looters with 8 or more in the group gets to steal an additional 30 percent of goods; while supplies last. Just for giggles, the greeter may or may not be armed with a hidden 44 magnum. Could be a Dirty Harry moment.

This weekend is Tax-free shopping and free looting for gangs of 8 or more

I’ve found that grocery shopping at 8 AM is the way I prefer. There are no old ladies to bump you with their carts, very few shoppers and everyone is nice at that time of the day. I do miss not being able to whack people with my walking cane when they bump me, but hey, I can adjust. If you have never shopped at H.E.B. you are missing out on a great store. You might want to consider relocating to Texas so you can save money on your food and gasoline.

Ensure goes well with wine

Two weeks ago, our 4-year-old Whirlpool microwave bit the dust. Then a few days later, the 4-year-old Whirlpool oven did the same, then the 4-year-old Hot Tub took a dump. We replaced the microwave with a nice hood and purchased a small microwave that rest on the counter. The hood is a beast that has enough CFM to suck a Tomcat to the grill. Now we are buying a new oven and the hot tub repair is scheduled for June 6th. I’m praying the television or the fridge doesn’t go to La-La land. Oh yeah, all the appliances were made in America, so that has me worried that we are going backward with our manufacturing and China is leaving us in the dust. Wait a minute! Isn’t that what our past president said? Condolences and best wishes from Texas, and God Bless The Alamo.

Was it something I cooked?

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Buying Ammunition at The Walmart


I detest shopping at Walmart. It’s not that I feel I’m better than the folks that go there; it’s more of a sadness that washes over me when I enter the door and am greeted by an elderly person who is drawing social security and can’t make ends meet and has to stand and speak to strangers the entire day. Most of the strangers don’t reply when the greeter says,” hi there, welcome to Walmart.” It makes me want to cry at times-being old. I sympathize with the elderly, and even though I don’t consider myself in their league, people say I am elderly. At times, it’s tough to accept, but I knew it would eventually happen, and most of it would not be pretty and wrapped with a red ribbon and constant travel like the pharmaceutical commercials promise.

Another thing that bothers me about Walmart is the trickery pulled on the shoppers. I can go to the H.E.B. and get more food for my money than at Walmart. It’s all a marketing ploy pulled on the folks that can least afford it. I don’t blame Sam Walton for any of the shenanigans in his formally buy American store. His family and their families and cousins and uncles and such have turned the place into a shrine for Chinese marketing. I tried once to find anything made in America. I walked the isles for hours, picking up random objects; made in China, Taiwan, Mexico, Philipines, and on and on, but most of it was from China. The only items found to be made in the US are the produce. If the Chinese grow celery, tomatoes, and lettuce, they must keep them for themselves.

Walmart used to sell guns. They still have a few shotguns locked in cases, and you can buy a nice Daisy Red Ryder BB gun or a pellet rifle, but no rifles or pistola’s, only limited ammo for such armaments. That’s where I ran into my old buddy Mooch.

It was yesterday, and MoMo and I were at Walmart picking up our medicinal prescriptions since our Medicare plan says we must use Walmart Pharmacy and no other. I saw him turning the corner from the garden section, which was now full of Valentine’s and Easter crap. I caught up with him in the sporting goods, standing at the ammo counter in deep conversation with a young man with wooden blocks in his ear lobes and piercings in his nose. Besides those additions, he looked like a normal Walmart employee; his nametag read Edwin B. He and Mooch were discussing ammunition.

I sided up to Mooch and cleared my throat. He acknowledged my presence but kept his rapport with the pierced boy.

” You’re sure these 50 caliber bullets will go at least 40 thousand feet and will bring down what I’m going to shoot at ?” The pierced boy said, “yep.”

The box of shells was as big as a loaf of Mrs. Bairds bread, and the price tag said they cost $300 dollars. I think Mooch will kill a Dinosaur or Bigfoot with ammo like that. He paid the boy with his debit card, and we walked away.

I’ve known Mooch for twenty-plus years, and it’s sometimes better not to know his plans. The suspense was killing me, so I broke my own rule and inquired, “Mooch, what are you going to shoot that would take a 50-caliber armor-piercing bullet?”

Without missing a step or turning his head, he said, “Me and the wife are leaving for Montana in the morning, going to shoot down some of them Chinese balloons and take the solar panels and all that spy stuff back home.” I wished him a safe trip and good hunting; wasn’t much more I could add to that.

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“When The Absurdity Of It All Becomes Real”


I am not a fan of Walmart, but they do have the best prices on Christmas lights, so I suck it up and give them my money. The same lights at Home Depot are double what I pay at Wally World.

The parking lot was full, people streaming into both entrances.

There is a line in the personal scooter queue. Seems Walmart purchased new ones that are comfier and a bit faster. I notice that many of the riders are suspiciously fit and healthy; maybe just too tired to walk. One lady had her Chihuahua in the scooter basket; the dog seemed afraid, probably knows she can’t drive the thing. Finally, the Walmart starter gives the group the checkered flag, and they roar into the store.

I snag a basket and proceed to the Christmas Decor isle, which is about one-third of the store.

A family of 15 is fighting over which lights will look better, multi-colored or red. Arguing in Spanish and some English, as to not offend us Anglos, although I know most of what they are sputtering. They finally grabbed two dozen or so boxes of the lights I wanted. Bam… lights cleaned out. Mission aborted, done, canceled.

I ask a lady that seemed to be wandering around in a daze checking her cell phone. She wears a Walmart vest and name tag, so I assume she knows something. Wrong, she doesn’t know if there will be more lights or even more Christmas decorations once the shelves were empty. I get it, supply chain problems, or perhaps clueless employees. Take your pick. I settle for similar lights, but not the ones I needed.

Standing in line, five people are ahead of me and one is a woman with an overflowing basket of groceries. Mostly junk food items; chips, beer, Hostess cupcakes, frozen dinners, cookies, Mountain Dew, and Coke. That might explain why she is as broad as tall. Not one healthy item in her basket.

What the hell? This is the garden / Christmas decoration department, not the market. The poor checker, not used to scanning grocer items, is bumfuzzled and doing the best he can. The line grows longer, now about 15 people behind me. The checker is getting slower, people are getting irritated, low blood sugar is kicking in. Christmas decorations need to be installed; the hours are ticking away.

A smallish Asian lady is in front of me; she’s done with it, walks over to the grocery lady, and loses it. Arms waving, jabbering in Chinese, but I could be wrong. She has lights that need installing and glass balls that are growing mold. The grocery lady tells her to F..k off. The checker finishes her groceries and the 20 six-packs of Mountain Dew, then she reaches into her purse and proceeds to write a check. The checker boy panics. A check, who writes checks? It’s doubtful he’s ever seen one before. He calls for a manager. Things are getting growly. My arms are going numb from the 8 boxes of lights I am holding.

The line behind me is now up to about 30 bodies, some with full carts of Christmas decorations and whiny kids. One man about halfway back is carrying a sidearm, possibly a 9 MM. We open carry here in Texas, everybody has a hog on their hip, in their car, or hidden in their purse. He is scowling, not a happy shopper.

My turn arrives. I plop my lights onto the counter. Checker boy starts scanning. ” Wait a minuet here buddy,” I say. ” These lights are suppose to be $6.79 a box not $10.79.” He scans again, then checks his cell phone and scans with that.

” Nope, they are $10.97,” he replies. Well, holy crap, all this waiting and I am getting screwed. I tell him to keep the lights and walk out.

Exiting the Garden / Christmas Department, I pass by a guy sitting on a Home Depot bucket just outside the gate. He has a sign that reads, “Homeless, Anything Can Help.” His bucket has a few coins and maybe four dollars in bills. I drop in a fiver. He says thank you and God Bless.

I’m a sucker during the holiday season. Why not. I have more than a lot of folks, and a lot less than many, but I can afford a five-dollar bill.

He looks up, our eyes meet for a split second, so, I ask him his story; everybody has one.

His name is Ted. He’s a Vietnam vet, has some PTSD and alcohol problems, and his daughter won’t let him live with her and his grandchildren, so he and the small dog sitting beside him sleep behind Walmart or wherever. So, I give him another fiver for the pooch.

I am humbled for being such a winy assed old man over a few boxes of Christmas lights. I am inwardly embarrassed. I quietly ask God’s forgiveness, hoping he is listening today.

Before I leave, I tell Ted, that he might want to find another store, people shop at Walmart because they “don’t have any money.” He laughs and wishes me a Merry Christmas.