A Test Of My Better Angels: Grade D-

So, we went to Walmart. Believe it or not, it's one of the few places in the world where I can get a haircut that's worth a shit (probably because I have them all trained at this point that I tip like a rap star at a strip club when I get what I want) and I desperately needed one. I never get haircuts unless it's mandated by some outside requirement. Which this one was.

As long as I had to be there anyhow, the Beneficiary went with and wandered around picking up various miscellaneous junk that needed replacing, getting back to me just as I was finishing up being shorn. We headed down the payout aisle toward the cashier, and I, being the clever one, told her that we only had a few things, and in order to not stand behind the family checking through their overflowing basket we should just go to the self-checking aisle and zip the stuff through the process ourselves.

Now, this is pretty much against all my principles as my theory is that if the cheap fuckers want me to do their work for them instead of hiring clerks, they can knock a few percent off my bill to pay for my labor. But, as always, principle falls to the practical which in this case focused around getting me out of the place before I accidentally beat the stuffing out of some hapless dweeb doing Walmart-denizen-type shit which shit is always vastly more annoying than any other kind of dweeb shit in the world.

There was an unmoving line at the self-checkout section. Three of the checkout machines were deader than Dillinger's dick, and the rest were occupied by wads of technologically illiterate fatboys, their sweaty lumpen-fraus and their grimy pig-eyed sprogs. Think defective clones of the original Pugsley Addams here.

Pugsly Addams, 1964

Apparently we picked a day to go to Walmart when the preppers had gotten their welfare checks and were all doing their monthly restock of the ol' survival bunker supplies. The sole exception was the helpless bimbo who would occasionally check an item between looks at her phone (was she taking SELFIES? No, she wouldn't…yeah, I think she was), which invariably resulted in the machine's bright red "Help Me!" light flashing. This meant the THREE increasingly annoyed clerks in the area were rotating through her station unlocking error codes and individually checking every single item she had and finally taking her credit card away from her and running it themselves.

I observed that for someone to be that aggressively clueless, she really needed to be a lot more fun to look at, but that she was at best a Third-String Sparkle Pony and/or a "Cowboy 10" (a "4" plus a six-pack), an evaluation which was utterly ignored by The Beneficiary. I figured she just didn't hear me.

Walmart Machine Upfucker Second Job

I sorted out what the problem was, and apologized profusely to The Beneficiary for getting her stuck in this sucking mire of braindamaged redneck  shitbaggery which, as all speech these days, had to be shouted through my plague mask.

In fact, I suspected this was the reason she'd ignored my previous "normal tone" bimbo evaluation.

Anyhow, this latest may have been overheard by everyone on that end of the store as they all turned toward me. I wasn't unduly worried, as from behind their masks they all seemed pretty neutral about it. The Beneficiary, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow and gave me The Look which, mask or no, instantly froze me into silent contemplation of the true roots of the Medusa story.

Wow. Everyone's so touchy these days.

I'm thinking they were probably just pissed over my pro-BLM hat that I got from my friend in Wyoming. I mean, this ain't exactly what you'd call a "Progressive" area. But tough shit for them, I wear it all the time. I don't hide MY opinions for ANYONE.

 Anyhow, we got clear of Walmart and went down to Jason's Deli, where a couple of Muffalettas and some shrimp gumbo warmed her enough to unfreeze me, and the rest of the day went pretty well.

Oh, yeah, except for that thing at the Estate Sale. But never mind, that's for another day.