Yet Another Hill In The Ha-Ha Landfill

Well, we’ve almost shot another year in the ass and lived to tell about it. Mankind’s ultimate demise continues to be no more than a reckless theory promoted by third world countries and other non-capitalists around the globe. Once again, although we teeter on the brink of chaos (according to ‘them’), America’s Wal-Marts still have the lights on twenty-four/seven, and a sub-culture of postindustrial Moorlocks inhabit them during those hours where they can remain unseen by anyone who doesn’t frequent monster truck rallies and stop in afterwards for a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

As I stood in the checkout line at the pharmacy late last night to purchase a certain feminine pain reliever required by a seriously homicidal spouse, I was confronted by Ardeen, who simply couldn’t live without telling me that he lost his spleen to an industrial accident fourteen years ago and that he hadn’t been able to work ever since, and that rats absolutely hate the smell of moth balls.

Yea, I was a little taken aback, too, that a conversation of only two sentences (both of them his) could cover such a diversity in subject matter, but there it was. Before I could step into another line, his wife, Clindoris, stepped between us and informed me that ‘they’ now made Shake-N-Bake for squirrel. I was fascinated that apparently some fathers felt comfortable naming their daughters words they’d picked up from posters at the county OB-GYN clinic and subsequently mispronounced. In fact, I wanted to ask her which end of a possum was considered ‘pork’ and what other rodents now had their own seasoning products, just in case I found myself suddenly homeless or in the throes of a national ebola virus pandemic.

After she’d taken a moment to size me up, she asked me if I were ‘from these here parts’. Not wishing to sound impolite, I told her that I was from Nigeria. This brought the conversation to a close, for all intents and purposes, although she did look back over her shoulder after a momentary pause and ask me why I wasn’t black.

Yea, it looks like we’re going to make it to ring in the New Year, warts and all. So enjoy yourself while you can—and if you value your sanity, avoid Wal-Mart like the plague.