Just recently, they opened up a new Super Walmart in my neighborhood. Imagine that; a white trash paradise in my neighborhood. I simply had to check it out.

As unbelievable as this may sound, I have never been in a Super! Walmart, so I had no idea what to expect. Would a door greeter give me a complimentary cup to spit tobacco juice in as soon as I entered the store? Along with lazy pregnant women and handicapped people, would fat asses get special parking privileges as close to the door as humanly possible? Would there be a mechanical bull somewhere? Perhaps next to an isle consisting solely of boxed wine and ‘Get R Done’ T-shirts?

I couldn’t wait to find out. As soon as my husband walked in the door last night, I demanded, “Take me to the new Super! Walmart posthaste. I must mingle with the little people and buy a 56 pack of something. It doesn’t matter what.”

Yes, I could have gone to Super! Walmart by myself. But I figured I needed my husband just in case a big shit stomping fight broke out and someone tried to shank me with a broken Pabst Blue Ribbon bottle.

Disappointedly enough, the Super! Walmart was pretty much the same as the regular Walmart…only on a much larger scale. Sure, there was the typical slew of fat sows zipping around the store on those riding carts intended for legitimately handicapped people as they simultaneously whined about mysterious glandular problems forcing them to be overweight, but fuck that. I can see fat people in denial at my local grocery store, so I wasn’t impressed.

My husband and I wandered the aisles, dejected, for a bit. Then I caught sight of two teenage girls looking around fervently while they shoved shit into their pockets.

As we walked, I said, “Those chicks over there are stealing stuff.”

“Which chicks?”

“The slutty ones.”

My husband, no doubt wistfully remembering the days when he was a teenage delinquent who used to shoplift, made a suggestion. “We should help them out. Maybe go through the door when they do and set off the buzzer. Then we can stop and talk to cashier while they make a clean getaway.”

“Fuck no, I’m not doing that.” I replied, “But only because one of the chicks has half of her hair dyed blond and the other half dyed black a la Christina Agu-whore-lera. Otherwise, I would.”

My husband shrugged his shoulders and we kept on walking. Finally admitting to ourselves that absolutely nothing interesting was going to happen, we grabbed a banana and headed for the check-out. After purchasing it and a pack of bubblegum, we started making our way towards the door.

On the way, we happened to pass a bank. Considering the late hour, I wasn’t surprised to see the bank closed. However, I did notice a fishbowl full of candy on the counter with a little index card taped to the side. The sign simply read, “Free.”

I don’t know what possessed me to do it (other than I’m impulsive and a lunatic), but without even skipping a step, I swiped the entire fishbowl of candy off of the counter. My husband, noticing what I had tucked under my arm, immediately veered away from me until he had put a significant amount of distance between us. He does this every time he’s with me and I do something stupid. That way, if shit escalates, he’s available to bail me out of jail.

I didn’t make it 10 feet before a door greeter stopped me. She was an older, dowdy sort of woman with dusty salt and pepper hair and an overbite. She was also a gentle reminder to the public that saving for retirement is a damn good idea. Otherwise, you could end up being that older dowdy woman working the door at a fucking Super Walmart.

“Ma’am,” she asked tentatively, “Can I…uh…see your receipt?”

I looked at my fishbowl full of candy and shrugged. Then, I peeled the ‘Free’ sign off the side and handed it over.

“Ma’am?” she said, “You’re only supposed to take one piece of candy, not the whole bowl.”

“It doesn’t say that on the receipt,” I replied.

“This is not a receipt. This is a sign.”

“Well, it is a sign without fine print then. So the fishbowl is mine.”

She squinted her eyes shut and opened them very slowly in that way people do when they’re getting frustrated, but still want to keep their cool. Then, “Ma’am? I’m going to ask you to return the candy bowl.”

“There’s no…”

“Ma’am?”

“FINE…”

“MA’AM!”

“PRINT!”

Finally losing it, she snipped, “I’m going to call my supervisor!”

“Well, he better move his ass before I eat every piece of candy in this whole damn bowl.” I snapped back.

Seconds later, the manager shuffled over with downcast eyes and an expression on his face that clearly said, ‘Obviously, I’ve made some bad choices in life.’

“What seems to be the problem here?” he mumbled.

Dowdy door greeter lady jumped in, “This woman is trying steal a bowl of candy!”

With a voice as smooth as honey, I told the supervisor, “Sir, this bowl was clearly marked ‘Free.’ Now how could I possibly steal something that’s advertised as free?”

At this point in time, people were starting to stop and watch the confrontation. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the two thieving teenagers duck out of the store with obviously guilty expressions on their faces.

“Now you know full well,” the manager insisted, “That that sign means you should take one piece of free candy.”

“I do not know that, sir, because it was not advertised in that manner. Don’t blame me because someone working at that bank doesn’t know how to properly word an index card.”

We went back and forth for a couple more minutes. They even subtly threatened to call the police. I dared them to do it and they shot each other looks and instantly did a little backpedaling. A random customer decided to involve himself in the drama.

“Just give the candy back already!” he admonished.

“You sir,” I answered, “Will not be getting a single solitary piece of my candy. But I’ll tell you what, Mr. Tubby Fat Pants, you can have my banana.”

I held out the banana to the chubby gentleman, but he refused my very generous offer. “Bitch,” he muttered as he walked away.

The entire front of the store was suddenly abuzz. People leaving and entering the store alike started whispering to each other, “What’s going on?”

Customers who had been standing there during most of the brouhaha were explaining the merits of my case. The crowd was overwhelmingly on my side. Considering that I was surrounded by welfare Moms and out of work contractors, I wasn’t surprised by this.

Finally, the manager threw his hands up in the air. “Fine. Take the candy bowl. Heck, it’s not even our candy bowl. It belongs to the bank.”

Very smugly, I strutted out of the Walmart and promptly tossed the entire bowl of candy in the trash. It was mostly full of smarties and dum dums anyway and I fucking hate that shit.

After a quick walk across the parking lot, I slid into my car next to my husband.

“Managed to stay out of jail again?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I pouted. “Nothing interesting ever happens to me. Ever.”

“Where’s the candy?”

“I don’t know.” I said dismissively, “Some fat guy is probably digging it out of the trash. Get me out of this white trash hell.”

As we turned around in the parking lot, would you believe I actually did see someone sneaking a piece of candy out of that bowl? The whole world is full of fucking heathens. Me included.

Read the follow up to this story here.