Senseless Scribbling of an Idiot #25: Getting Pimp-Slapped in Wal-Mart

If you haven’t heard, let me give you a rundown of what allegedly happened.  Some woman was in Hood-Mart, I mean, Wal-Mart with her 2 year old child who was crying.  There is some debate on how the child was crying.  Some say the kid was screaming her lungs out.  Others say she was simply crying.  Still others say that the kid was whimpering a little. 


There are further conflicts.  Supposedly the man who slapped the kid was a few aisles over, but some people say they were in line and the man was right behind the woman and her kid.  Allegedly he told the mother, “Shut that kid up or I’m going to shut her up for you.”  It is kind of unclear what happened after this.  He either came across the several aisles and snatched the kid up and slapped her in her face four or five times, or he just slapped the kid while the mother was still holding her.  At any rate, however it happened, the kid got slapped in the face four or five times. 


After he slapped the kid, he allegedly told the mother, “I told you I was going to shut her up.”  No word on if the kid actually stopped crying.  She was treated at the scene and the only thing that was wrong with her was her face was red, but other than that there were no injuries.  The man was arrested and charged with felony cruelty to children.  It is alleged that he may be mentally disturbed.


Isn’t this the most hilarious thing you’ve ever heard?  Okay, now all the parents are going to start freaking out, “Oh, no, he didn’t!  Ain’t nobody finna be slappin’ my child!  I’ll bust his ass up, slappin’ my kid!  Oh, don’t you put your hands on my child!”


Other comments were something to the effect of, “This man probably wasn’t a perfect child when he was a kid,” “The kid got what she deserved,” and “The man overreacted because the kid could have been sick, tired or hungry.”


The kid was only two years old and it is really is wrong to slap someone else’s kid, but I personally believe the man should be given a medal.  During my incarceration at Wal-Mart since I first discovered Satan’s Secret when I was 10, I have come across thousands of screaming babies I would like to slap, not just babies really, but children of all ages:  from troublesome two year olds to petulant pre-teens.  Wal-Mart is the breeding ground for rude, insufferable brats, spawned by bargain hunting parents in waddling around in sweat pants and the Kathy Gifford line.


I loathe Wal-Mart with every fibre of my being.  I wish I were wealthy enough to stop shopping there, but unfortunately, Sam Walton has me by the balls with those ridiculously low prices and the fact that Wal-Mart has everything I’ve ever wanted, ever, in my whole life.  I do my best to shop at other stores first, but the reality is that those disgustingly low prices that put mom-and-pop stores out of business and destroy communities, just cannot be beat.  What else is a penniless waif to do but frolick with Satan’s Abomination?


It’s not just Hood-Mart’s, I mean Wal-Mart’s, foul business practices, it’s the low-life, degenerate wealth of people who shop there that aggravate me the most.  The kid asks, “Why do you put your hood on every time we go to Wal-Mart?”  Shut up, kid!  I don’t want anybody to witness my shame.  I don’t want to be mixed in with the rest of the plebes.


Have you heard somebody created a website called and it’s a smorgasbord of poorly dressed, overweight middle America Wal-Mart shoppers.  Yeah, it’s like this every time I go to Wal-Mart.  If you go to a ghetto Wal-Mart in a black neighbourhood, you will find Ki-Ki, Man Man, Dee Dee and La’Shay-tronika loud talking, complaining about prices and rude people, as if they have room to talk.  They barrel down the aisles with carts overloaded with perm repair, cheap nightgowns, leggings they are too big for and those horrid $5 DVDs that I confess I also shop for.


If you go to a Wal-Mart in rural America in a white neighbourhood, there you will find Bobby Joe, Peggy Joe, Jessi Joe and their Uncle Jimmy Dean Joe who looks like a mack truck with a pig tail.  All of them will have mullets, even little baby Ruth Ann Joe, with overalls, a John Deere hat and a sprig of wheat tucked between missing teeth. 


So you’re standing in Wal-Mart’s long ass lines behind these people—and yes, the lines are always long in Wal-Mart.  When have you ever been to Wal-Mart and there hasn’t been a line, with the exception of the wee hours of the morning where you’ll find the senior citizen crowd camped out in their RVs eager for the rollback special on denture cream.


The kid asked me why I feel so passionately against Wal-Mart, why do I get anxiety every time I pull up to that horrid store?  Is it because of the rude patrons with their unruly, noisy ass children?  Or the fact that nothing is ever stocked properly in the store?  Why is Tampax on the same aisle as the bread?  Or is it the obnoxious, poorly educated, halfway retarded employees who stare at you blankly when you ask them which aisle has the toothpaste?  Because the stores are always so irritatingly large, the Super Wal-Marts, purposely designed this way so you get lost and wind up with more shit in your basket as you try to find your way out of the labyrinth of aisles filled up with shit that costs only $1.97. 


What I like least is Old Man River posted at the front door as the Wal-Mart sentry who will harass you until you give him your receipt, which he cannot read because he left his reading glasses at home next to his Pacemaker.  I hate being treated like I might have stolen something from the place.  What is Old Man River going to do to me anyway if I did steal something?  One time I deliberately barreled past Ma Granger as she was trying to check my basket.  “Ma’am!  Ma’am!?  Ma’am, I need to look at your receipt.”  I kept walking and another customer tried to get my attention but I purposely ignored them both.  I looked over my shoulder as I was crossing the street and Grandma was staring at me, looking mournful, like she knew she would be fired because she failed to check my receipt.


Another time I honestly forgot to pay for some .97 nails I was bamboozled into buying because they just happened to be hanging on an end cap.  I was there to buy some more toilet paper and wound up leaving with two $5.00 DVDs from that infernal basket they set out like a water bowl for dogs, a velour blanket, some mascara, a rolling plastic drawer thing because Wal-Mart rolled it back from $39.97 to $31.97 (I mean, what a deal, right?) and one of those thingies where I can hang my scrunchies on, because I really need one of those.  I don’t even wear scrunchies.  But I bought some so I can use my new scrunchie hangy thingy. 


As we were leaving, some rude old woman asked for my receipt and I gave it to her.  She scanned it and then saw the nails that weren’t in a bag.  They were under the rolling plastic drawer thing, so nobody ever saw it, but she pulled the nails out like we had just robbed a Brinks armed vehicle.  I sent the kid to pay for them but she was still looking at us suspiciously.


But screaming babies don’t get the bat of an eyelash.  Preposterous.  I happen to live in a neighbourhood with an exceptional Spanish population.  As you all know, I hate everybody and Spanish people are no exception with their poorly trained, ill-mannered brats, blabbing on in Spanglish.  How I’ve longed to slap one.  Especially the little brat who kept ramming me with her cart while I stood in line to buy organic tofu sausages, nail polish remover, a deck of cards, a 60 oz econo-size thing of cocoa butter, some Pop Rocks and one of those things that you use to keep the potato chip bag closed (see how random a Wal-Mart shopping list is?).  I told her mother to control her child, but of course, Mama no speakie English.


Hola… Controlo el childo, por favor! 


But if I were to turn around and slap little Rosarita, I would be wrong.  Then this mildly retarded Wal-Mart associate walks past—why are they called associates as if they command some kind of respect—anyway, this Wal-Mart associate walks past and croons, “Oh, how cute.”




Nothing like this ever happens to me when I shop at Target.  The clothes are cuter.  The shelves are always properly stocked.  The aisles are wider, and you would think Wal-Mart would have wide aisles for all the spandex stuffed sausages that shop there, but they don’t. 


And that’s how crappy Wal-Mart is.  Substandard wages, poor health care options, forced manual labour in squalid conditions all for the benefit of some screaming brat who probably deserved to get her face slapped, and all the lowlife parents who frequent Satan’s Abomination, otherwise known as Hood-Mart, otherwise known as Wal-Mart.


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