The joy of Walmart

We’ve all heard the joke about Walmart. (and by we all – I can only speak for myself. You may have heard it.) I don’t remember it word for word, and it has a vague Jeff Foxworthy feel to it: If the biggest city you have ever visited is a Walmart… you might be a redneck.

There’s truth in that gag. The people of Walmart frighten me. If you need evidence to validate my trepidation, check out the People of Walmart website. (link in the sidebar to your right)

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that all of Walmart’s clientele are maniacal fashion deficient socially awkward hillbillies that got hit with both the stupid and the ugly sticks. I know these miscreants are a marginal representation of our population. The scary people at Walmart are much like crooked cops, and TEA Party enthusiasts; they are not the status quo. Yet they are the most noticeable - a vocal (albeit occasionally entertaining) minority.

On that note, I have a confession. I love the sweet & sour meatballs at the Walmart deli.

I don’t often get to eat them as I rarely visit Walmart. Part of my reasoning is the distance from my house to Wallyworld; it is not worth the drive for $2 worth of meaty goodness. The other part is my paranoid fear that I may be sucked in to the black hole that is the plumber’s crack of the frumpy guy in the checkout line before me – transporting me to a parallel universe of bright lights and automatic doors where half of the population wears blue vests and the other half like to buy their anti-depressants at the same place that they purchase their firearms.

If only there was somewhere else I could get those meatballs.

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