For I have seen hell; and it is Walmart

Having not been properly listening when Mrs. Ottawacker announced her plans for her day off, I found myself being driven to a garden centre for grass seed, Home Hardware for some sandpaper, and Billings Bridge for some-as-yet-to-be-specified errand.

It turned out to be Walmart.

Now, and I am quite proud to say this, I have never been to Walmart. As part of my get-on-my-hobby-horse-and-boycott-anything-I-don't-agree-with stance, I refuse to go to places that are not unionized. And Walmart is a vile American store that gouges its workers and sells shite on the cheap. It is in short, everything I dislike.

So imagine my surprise to find Mrs. Ottawacker patiently leading me by the hand through the massed ranks of greeters (another thing I hate) and into a seething mosh pit of humanity. 

"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Buying you some flip-flops," she answered.
"Here?"
"It's the only place you won't complain about the price," she said.

When I opened my eyes, I was in front of a massed rank of plasticky-rubbery-waterproofy shoes, all of which looked as hideous as the pair next to them.  "You choose," I said.

So she did. And $22.97 later, we left.

As we left, I began exteriorizing my feelings; unfortunately, I bumped into a neighbour as I was in full eff-mode, so I had to briefly become nice again and ask how she was. (She was fine, in case you are wondering.)

I still feel violated.