Bowling Diarrhea

The air is pungent with formaldehyde and pumpkin spice candles.

There is something deeply wrong about this place. This building is enormous, but I can feel it closing in. I can hear the hidden gears of this evil machine slowly tick, pressing its walls towards me. I’m like Luke Skywalker in the Death Star’s trash compactor. Soon I will be scrambling to the top of this pile of junk, trying to wedge a cheap broomstick between the walls’ final encroachment. In my last moment, I’ll pop like a grape, my innards squeezed out as a frothy pink soft-serve puree which will squirt into tins and be sold as gourmet cat food.  

I am both the product and refuse of this place. 

I have only been here for five minutes, but my situation is already hopeless. I have no choice but to ask for God’s help. I grab the nearest prayer book (available in every department) and open it to a random page:

“Hail, Paula Deen! Patron saint of farting in church! 

Dear Lord, I would never willingly fart during “You Raise Me Up”, but the mighty wind of your Holy Spirit fills me with ecstasy and I can’t control my mortal bowels. I solemnly declare that I will increase my weekly pledges and replace the offertory basket that I relieved myself in. I have earnestly asked for the usher’s forgiveness, and I vow to replace his suit coat which I also soiled. My Lord, I ask that your humble servant, Paula Deen, intercede and stop the explosive flow of Corn Casserole from my body. Paula Deen, full of grace, may my soul sparkle like your divine veneers, and may the healing blood of Christ flow like creamy Chicken n’ Dumplins’ over my sinful poop covered body… In Joel Osteen’s name, I pray.” 

It is a thoughtful gesture that Walmart provides Paula Deen prayer books. Everything here gives you the poops, and the fresh underpants are locked in a case behind glass. If you shit your pants at Walmart, pray to Paula,  because you’ll have to walk a quarter mile to customer service before you can grab some Hanes. Dear reader, I ask that you heed the warnings of divine scripture. Shitting your pants at Walmart is inevitable, because soon none of us will be allowed to leave. 

Walmart is an internment camp for the American dream. Its slogan is clearly written above the barbed wire gates, “Save money. Live better”. As I walk under these words, I can’t help but feel some resentment. Every time I save money at Walmart, I feel like I’m going broke. 

I’m told that old and sick ants in an anthill are assigned to work in the garbage dump, that way, when they fall over and die their body is already in the heap.  Every employee (Team Associate) here is simultaneously obese and malnourished. I think the food has drugs in it. None of the employees are aware of the fact that they actually work here. 

Most of the “Associates” are on their phones speaking through bluetooth headphones in foreign languages. Perhaps they are spies for BJ’s or Hamas, busy coordinating a drone strike on the single employee that can actually afford to retire here. It already happened last week. 

The moment Susan cut her cake on her 63rd birthday, a ballistic missile came crashing down onto the break room destroying it and the neighboring “As Seen on TV” section. The explosion hurled red-hot Slap Chops and George Foreman Grills through the store. Popular late night infomercial items became deadly shrapnel. A horrible scene for sure. But that’s just business. 

Secretly, all of us are relieved that Susan is dead. If she were still alive, we would have to pay for her retirement, and I don’t want to pay 3 extra cents for hot dogs. Expensive hot dogs are simply unamerican. In order for the products I consume to be cheap, somebody needs to get screwed. All of us are Team Associates at Walmart, whether we know it or not. 

Don’t be like Susan. Don’t save for retirement. Enjoy your life. When you are senile, nursing home staff will sell you to Walmart anyways. Here, you will be a greeter, twitching in the foyer half glancing at receipts. Waiting to get run over by a 600-pound woman in a motorized shopping cart. When she finally figures out how to stop the thing, she’ll report you to management for inconveniencing her. 

In your final act, on that Walmart floor, pray to Paula Deen, so you don’t shit your pants.