I’m sitting in my Jeep in the Walmart parking lot nervously eating Tramadol (oh, it’s a prescription, don’t you worry), trying to understand why I’m even here. The word necessities is what I keep thinking. Those things that keep you alive. Yet, at this very moment, everything good and true inside me (which isn’t much at this point) says go— run. Get as much distance as physically possible between you and this industrial portal to Satan’s anus. And yet, for whatever reason, I just keep dumbly staring at the blue electric sign flickering on and off, on and off, as the sad plastic shopping bags blow across the pavement like urban tumbleweeds.

I pop two more into my mouth— cracking each one beforehand to help speed up the time release—cause, well, let’s face it, we’re gonna need it aren’t we? And worse, it might not be enough.

Walmart is a strange and evil beast. The retarded brainchild of entrepreneur Sam Walton, a hillbilly crazy from Oklahoma who actually believed that if he could save his customers money it would somehow improve their quality of life.

Well, it definitely improved his family’s quality of life, that’s for sure. Today, their estimated net worth is $144.7 billion. Now that, people, is a living— that’s a you-get-to-have-your-own-clone-and-several-Lamborghini’s kind of living. Naked women with machine guns on Jet Skis, robotic pet dogs that are programed to drive Humvee limos— the golden doors have been opened for these people and their world is practically limitless.

Oh boy, Mr. Walton, that’s not what I see lingering around your parking lot. Even as I write this, grim troll-like people keep wandering past my Jeep mumbling obscenities, their eyes blank as chicken’s as they push their broken carts towards a doomed lifestyle of Cheetos-stained fingers and bad television. Not quite the quality of life I imagined.

Yet, if you think about it— why the hell should good ol’ Sam care now? He’s dead. And his family’s filthy dirty rich. I just can’t imagine that obese people with purple hair and poorly drawn Loony Tunes tattoos are very high on the Walton’s give-a-crap list. Which they aren’t. Apparently, the Waltons give basically one percent of their personal wealth to charitable causes. Hmm, no real surprise there, I guess. That’s just the way it goes. No doubt, though— somewhere French Revolutionaries are rolling in their graves at the very idea of the filthy rich becoming even more filthy rich, especially when it’s at the expense of … ah, who are those people again? Oh, yeah… the poor. Makes me wonder what finally pushed them over the edge before the blades were sharpened and all the royal heads began to roll.

As I open the Jeep door and stumble inside to buy my necessities, the thought of French royalty and their pretty heads severed, is enough to keep me thinking that maybe there is hope.

But who knows, maybe these Walmart customers are living a better and more fulfilling life because of the Waltons. Or maybe these troll-like consumers just haven’t recognized their true potential yet. Hard to say in these dreary days of consumerism. Only time and de-evolution will tell— survival of the fittest, I guess.

Darwin would have shopped at Walmart.