The queen of Walmart shoppers arrives in her chariot

Walmart. By now most of us have received many emails containing tons of pictures of Walmart shoppers.

Not pretty, to say the least. And as much as I’m not a fan of the giant superstore’s business practices, I simply cannot afford to buy my toilet paper anywhere else. So I go. And I laugh. And sometimes I want to cry. Take, for instance a recent visit on a Saturday morning.

This was an emergency venture as I always plan a Wally World shopping trip on early weekday mornings.

We were down to one roll—it was a have-to, and you can rest assured that my poor planning will not repeat itself. We’ll just use a catalog if need be, I believe it was Sears… It started right there in the parking lot. Way more crowded than I’m used to, so I had to wait to pull into a parking spot.

There, right before my eyes, an unspeakable crime unfolded. An elderly woman was patiently waiting, blinker on, for another shopper to back out of their spot. Along comes a beat-up Ford Pinto (yup, still running), which zips into the spot in front of the woman.

Strike One: I’m furious immediately, so I wait for the Pinto occupants to exit hoping they have some sort of physical disability which will alleviate my anger.

Not so. Two women, draped in obnoxious bling, clad in ridiculously too tight jeans and wearing clickety-clackety high heels.

These were really LOUD women, the kind ya just have to hate. I follow them closely, but they don’t notice me. Strike Two: Not one, not two, but THREE carts are unacceptable for these broads, they torture the Walmart Greeter and cause chaos in the entryway. I’m still behind them, and to say that I’m less than happy at this point is a grave understatement.

Strike Three: As previously mentioned they are LOUD. I can’t help but overhear their conversation which consists of (shock of all shocks) their unfair food stamp limitations.

One of them (the driver) croaks out that she may “even have to find a JOB”!!! Sniff. This was directly followed by plans for a nice little manicure at the completion of their shopping spree—all of this on my dime.

Of course, the nails were fifty inches long and bright fire engine red, and the clickety clack… clearly they know not of my three strike limit.

I briefly forget about them while searching for inexpensive yet somewhat nutritious dog treats.

I have calmed down considerably until… the toilet paper aisle, when I hear, yet again, clickety clack, and chit chat pertaining to one-ply store brands. Not for these gals—only the best for them.

The driver promptly piled some Charmin THREE-ply into her cart, right on top of a nice bag of shrimp cocktail. I am wishing them harm at this point, but I carry on.

My Condition is severely compromised and the blood is pumping like a flood ravaged river.

By the time I was finally finished at the check-out my body had turned against me, no doubt fueled by the extra-half-cup of coffee consumed before this trip to Wally World Hell and the aggravation directly caused by the high-heeled Pinto biotch.

I was forced to use the rest room, which is truly only reserved for absolute emergencies. I do not do well in public potties—ever. And it’s crowded. Two stalls available, but a quick glance into my first choice reveals the dreaded no toilet paper situation.

Should’ve brought in my own newly purchased twenty pack, but no. Thank God there’s another choice, and after the oh-so-careful lining of the seat, and the required hover, I’m somewhat healed. Until…

Clickety clack. Those dreaded heels can be viewed by yours truly from under my stall, and I do not hesitate to exit.

Oh yeah, it’s the food stamp pinto driving tramp, and she’s not looking so snappy now. Clearly in a pre-fecal position, sweating profusely, this is a true emergency situation happenin here.

Again, it’s crowded, so when she comes face to face with me, and I promptly direct her to the paperless stall, she obeys. No time for a pre-check for her— she’s gotta-go gotta-go gotta-go right now. And in she goes.

Needless to say, there is nothing quiet about this woman including her potty habits. Apollo 13 is ready to launch—and launch it does. To the moon, Alice…

Bellowing like a sick cow in that paperless stall, she demanded that someone provide her will a roll (I’m guessin she would’ve killed for some one-ply). Now, a kinder person would’ve accommodated a gal in need. I handled it with the grace and finesse the good lord provided me…

I stood at the sink, doubled over in laughter, thanking God, Karma, and all cosmic forces. And then, because I just couldn’t help it, I shared Strike One with the other potty occupants.

She heard me for sure. Three other women walked out of that rest room on that fateful day without offering a single scrap of assistance.

The friend was perusing the nail salon as I was exiting. I bumped her cart slightly, and as she turned to look at me I muttered “clickety clack.”

Then, because I need to avoid injuries at all costs, AND because they were three times my size, AND because I HAVE TO WORK, I ran—just like a track star I tell ya—unloaded my cart in record time, and chuckled all the way home.

Hey, when in Rome…