Why Wal Mart Doesn't Have Revolvin' Doors
Can't say I have a lot of experience with revolvin' doors. AHM took me with her through one when I was a pup, but all I remember is a narrow movin' box of glass goin' 'round in circles and whackin' me on the butt every few steps. I whizzed on her shoes when I got my equalibrium back and I haven't seen another one since.
Somethin' the Optimistic Patriot of New England Republican wrote a while ago reminded me of those narrow doors and a recent shoppin' excursion with AHM.
Usually AHM does her shoppin' on the way home from work, but sometimes she runs out on the weekend and takes one of us with her. Only one of us at a time, mind you, ever since that unfortunate incident when Uncle Toot and me had a slight disagreement 'bout who should be occupyin' the front seat and managed to drive the car into a tree.
It's always interestin' shoppin' with AHM. Not that I get to go into the stores, of course, 'cept the pet store. But she's real efficient so none of us ever have to wait in the car very long, and we always get to tour the exterior facilities before we move on to the next stop. That's when we get a real dog's eye view of what AHM calls Wal Mart Mamas. You know exactly what I'm talkin' about, right? Now imagine seein' it from my perspective, lookin' up. I'm no fashion expert, but I'm pretty sure lycra was never meant to stretch that far.
A few shoppin' trips ago I was nappin' in the front seat of the Bug, waitin', when there arose quite a ruckus from the Giant Economy Size SUV next door. Gettin' my ole' bones up to check it out, I saw a Wal Mart Mama and two of her self-bastin' Butterball Babies. WMM had the rear hatch wide open and the BBs were rootin' through the bags, squabblin' and squawkin' at one another. Naturally I took the opportunity to check out WMM's haul. Bags full of potato chips, Doritos, Fritos, gallons of ice cream, boxes of cookies and snack cakes, frozen pizzas, sacks of potatoes, and who knows what else were piled high.
Then AHM stalked out of the store. I almost didn't see her behind the collective tonnage which, I swear, was more than the total weight of our little Bug. She was mutterin' to herself. Never a good sign.
AHM could only get the passenger door about halfway open 'cause the Butterball Babies had left the SUV doors open while they inventoried their haul. I hopped out and AHM hooked my leash over the window handle so I could take care of business while she wrestled the groceries into the back seat. I figured I'd go for a free handout from next door where the BBs were systematically demolishin' a regular sized bag of Fritos each.
Ya' woulda' thought I was the Slaverin' Pit Bull From Hell the way those brats screamed when I put one paw on the runnin' board, so I beat a hasty retreat about two seconds before I lost a toe. At least they closed the door givin' AHM some room. I whizzed on their tires just for spite.
After she had finished loadin' our paltry few bags, AHM hesitated, then turned and looked WMM straight in the eye. And smiled. I jumped back into the car 'cause I recognized that smile.
AHM to Wal Mart Mama: You're welcome.
Wal Mart Mama: (pausin' to wrestle her tatty gray sweatshirt back down over a gut the size of the Times Square New Year's Ball) Wha…?
AHM: (with a bigger smile—always a bad sign) I said "You're welcome."
WMM: (frownin'—not a good look for her when those shaggy black eyebrows met in the middle) For what?
AHM: My taxes.
WMM: Huh? (unplucked black eyebrows now rose to meet the fringe of peroxide straw hair sweat-glued to her pasty forehead)
AHM: My taxes paid for your food stamps.
WMM: (defiantly shufflin' around in her terrycloth carpet slippers to grab another plastic bag) Nuh-uh.
AHM: Uh-huh.
WMM: (glarin' at AHM while holdin' a baseball bat sized summer sausage in one hand and bag of Idaho potatoes in the other) So?
Considerin' the array of weapons confrontin' her, I thought it was high time we retreated before WMM put a coupla' dents in the ole' Beetle—or us. AHM didn't say anything else. She just gave WMM The Look. Considerin' The Look can intimidate our whole pack plus an entire class of fifth grade boys, believe me when I say you do not wanna' be on the receivin' end. The Look traveled from WMM to the two Butterball Babies (who had finished off the Fritos and were startin' on the Utz Potato Chips) and back.
For a few seconds there was a stand-off and I positioned myself and my teeth to play center field. I was ready, willin', and able to go for that summer sausage if it got within range.
Suddenly WMM started slingin' bags of groceries into her SUV like a shot putter goin' for the Olympic record. AHM just managed to jump aside and close our car door before WMM thundered toward the driver's side of hers. You could almost hear the drum effects accompanyin' the rear view of those twin mountains of burnt orange lycra—ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-boom. When she levered herself into the driver's seat, the entire SUV groaned, sagged, and canted to the left.
AHM got in the car and looked at me. "See why Wal Mart doesn't have revolving doors?"
There aren't enough Jaws of Life in the universe to meet the demand.
posted by Harrison at 2:15 PM
Somethin' the Optimistic Patriot of New England Republican wrote a while ago reminded me of those narrow doors and a recent shoppin' excursion with AHM.
"The implication is clear. The poorest members of society cannot afford nutritious meals."
Usually AHM does her shoppin' on the way home from work, but sometimes she runs out on the weekend and takes one of us with her. Only one of us at a time, mind you, ever since that unfortunate incident when Uncle Toot and me had a slight disagreement 'bout who should be occupyin' the front seat and managed to drive the car into a tree.
It's always interestin' shoppin' with AHM. Not that I get to go into the stores, of course, 'cept the pet store. But she's real efficient so none of us ever have to wait in the car very long, and we always get to tour the exterior facilities before we move on to the next stop. That's when we get a real dog's eye view of what AHM calls Wal Mart Mamas. You know exactly what I'm talkin' about, right? Now imagine seein' it from my perspective, lookin' up. I'm no fashion expert, but I'm pretty sure lycra was never meant to stretch that far.
A few shoppin' trips ago I was nappin' in the front seat of the Bug, waitin', when there arose quite a ruckus from the Giant Economy Size SUV next door. Gettin' my ole' bones up to check it out, I saw a Wal Mart Mama and two of her self-bastin' Butterball Babies. WMM had the rear hatch wide open and the BBs were rootin' through the bags, squabblin' and squawkin' at one another. Naturally I took the opportunity to check out WMM's haul. Bags full of potato chips, Doritos, Fritos, gallons of ice cream, boxes of cookies and snack cakes, frozen pizzas, sacks of potatoes, and who knows what else were piled high.
Then AHM stalked out of the store. I almost didn't see her behind the collective tonnage which, I swear, was more than the total weight of our little Bug. She was mutterin' to herself. Never a good sign.
AHM could only get the passenger door about halfway open 'cause the Butterball Babies had left the SUV doors open while they inventoried their haul. I hopped out and AHM hooked my leash over the window handle so I could take care of business while she wrestled the groceries into the back seat. I figured I'd go for a free handout from next door where the BBs were systematically demolishin' a regular sized bag of Fritos each.
Ya' woulda' thought I was the Slaverin' Pit Bull From Hell the way those brats screamed when I put one paw on the runnin' board, so I beat a hasty retreat about two seconds before I lost a toe. At least they closed the door givin' AHM some room. I whizzed on their tires just for spite.
After she had finished loadin' our paltry few bags, AHM hesitated, then turned and looked WMM straight in the eye. And smiled. I jumped back into the car 'cause I recognized that smile.
AHM to Wal Mart Mama: You're welcome.
Wal Mart Mama: (pausin' to wrestle her tatty gray sweatshirt back down over a gut the size of the Times Square New Year's Ball) Wha…?
AHM: (with a bigger smile—always a bad sign) I said "You're welcome."
WMM: (frownin'—not a good look for her when those shaggy black eyebrows met in the middle) For what?
AHM: My taxes.
WMM: Huh? (unplucked black eyebrows now rose to meet the fringe of peroxide straw hair sweat-glued to her pasty forehead)
AHM: My taxes paid for your food stamps.
WMM: (defiantly shufflin' around in her terrycloth carpet slippers to grab another plastic bag) Nuh-uh.
AHM: Uh-huh.
WMM: (glarin' at AHM while holdin' a baseball bat sized summer sausage in one hand and bag of Idaho potatoes in the other) So?
Considerin' the array of weapons confrontin' her, I thought it was high time we retreated before WMM put a coupla' dents in the ole' Beetle—or us. AHM didn't say anything else. She just gave WMM The Look. Considerin' The Look can intimidate our whole pack plus an entire class of fifth grade boys, believe me when I say you do not wanna' be on the receivin' end. The Look traveled from WMM to the two Butterball Babies (who had finished off the Fritos and were startin' on the Utz Potato Chips) and back.
For a few seconds there was a stand-off and I positioned myself and my teeth to play center field. I was ready, willin', and able to go for that summer sausage if it got within range.
Suddenly WMM started slingin' bags of groceries into her SUV like a shot putter goin' for the Olympic record. AHM just managed to jump aside and close our car door before WMM thundered toward the driver's side of hers. You could almost hear the drum effects accompanyin' the rear view of those twin mountains of burnt orange lycra—ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-boom. When she levered herself into the driver's seat, the entire SUV groaned, sagged, and canted to the left.
AHM got in the car and looked at me. "See why Wal Mart doesn't have revolving doors?"
There aren't enough Jaws of Life in the universe to meet the demand.
posted by Harrison at 2:15 PM
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