Update: Attention those of you surfing in from various places, especially those you from the AOL Parenting Forum:
The following is intended as humor, nothing more.
I'm am neither bitter or filled with "Seething Hate," and who I vote for in the upcoming election is my business - and not something you should try to figure out from this post.
Bottom line, folks, it's just a joking look at Wal-Mart. Please take it that way.
If you really want to know what I think about politics, Palin, and the elections - go to the main page and read down through the last two week's posts, you might be surprised, or not, but please don't decide that you've got me all figured out from one silly post about Wal-Mart. - Jim
Yes, the newly remodeled 'Super' Walmart is now open.
Big Fat Hairy Deal.
Look, 'Super' or not, it's just a Walmart. That's it. It's not anything special. It's not Disneyland, or the Taj Mahal, or one of the Seven Wonders. Repeat: It's not anything special or super or amazing. It's just a big-ass building filled with the same old poor-quality, Chinese-made crap - only more so.
You live in Alaska - Alaska is Special, it's Super, it's Amazing. Go the hell outside if you want to be impressed.
Walmart? Walmart, 'super' or not, is just the same old same old. The 'super' bathrooms are still filthy. The 'super' isles are still so packed with pallets of cheap plastic, lead painted crap that you have to be a circus contortionist to get through them (in utter disregard for fire safety laws, better hope you never have to evacuate that 'super' building in a hurry). The 'super' employees are still minimum-waged mouth-breathers, that either spend the day out back smoking or roaming the isles in packs loudly discussing how stupid management is. The 'super' stupid management still wanders the store with their radios turned up so loud that the acoustic energy could induce uranium fission. The 'super' loud announcements from the 'super' front desk never end, and are done by a woman picked especially for her shrill, 'super' annoying voice (and by the way, Bob in Sporting Goods is out back having a smoke, he's not going to pick up the phone, stop calling for him). The 'super' parking lot is still a disaster area obviously designed by some engineer who has never actually driven a car, ever, and in fact may not even know what a car looks like. At least half of the 'super' merchandise isn't in the 'super' database, and has to be looked up manually by the 'super' cashiers, which is incomprehensible considering the number of 'super' shelf stockers blocking the isle with their overloaded carts and wireless inventory control widgets.
Then there's you, the 'super' customer. Do the rest of us a big favor, would you Country Mouse? Get over it. It's just another goddammed Walmart. A couple words of advice. First, I know you're excited and you just can't wait to go blow your entire Alaskan PFD in this Temple of the Modern Age, but for your own sake put on some actual pants before leaving the house. I do not want to see your fat ass packed into a pair of food-stained sweats, or your junk peeking out of that little opening in the front of those pajama bottoms decorated in hot peppers. Seriously, I'm going to start shooting if you people don't put on some fucking pants. Second, it's not Disney Land, there's no need to bring all fifteen of your filthy snot encrusted offspring with you. And if you must bring your curtain climbers, then keep them on a leash, since you obviously can't be bothered to teach them basic manners and controlled behavior. Oh, and bring a bottle for that screaming crib ape you're ignoring, or else I'm going to stuff a rag in it's mouth while you're three isles away pawing through the bargain DVD bin like a bear in the middle of a salmon run. Third, it's not the church social. If you see people you know, wave and keep on moving. Don't stop in the isle with your three carts and fifteen kids and their three carts and their fifteen kids, and starting gushing on about 'isn't the new super-dooper double plus extra good Walmart just amazing and nifty keeno.' Get out of the way. I cannot emphasize this enough. I am an angry, short tempered, impatient man who is pathologically incapable of suffering fools gladly. Get your pajama-clad cottage-cheese ass out of my way, or I will weed you out of the gene pool - I can probably claim Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and get away with it too, so, seriously, you've been warned. And lastly, eat something before you come. I swear to all that is holy, if I have to dodge one more of you cousin-humping, six-toed, cross-eyed retards choking down a McDonald's' extra-super-double-double-sized happy meal, or loudly slurping a triple-shot-half-skim-double-decaf-mocha-lattachino, I am going to unleash the fist of death.
Get your shit, pay the lady, get out. It is that simple, really. And put on some pants.