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QUEEN OF THE UNDERGROUND 2003-03-26 | 1:38 p.m. I went to get my oil changed at Wal-Mart the other day. I had an interesting experience to say the least. First off the man who helped me at the tire, lube, express could apparently only see about one foot in front of his face. When he typed on the computer he literally had his face pushed up to the glass. His name was Coon. Hmmmm. I have to say I don’t see that as a name I’d pick for my child but to each his own. Secondly I met the man who was to do the actual changing of the oil. He was covered in tattoos. I don’t mean the good kind. I mean like he had prison ink on his face, neck and hands. I couldn’t see the rest of him but I’m picturing a really big eagle on his back comprised of little dots that have over the years turned gray and bled. Getting prison ink is just a bad decision all around but what kind of person does it take to decide to get it on their face? It’s just fucked up. There were words printed there but I didn’t want to be that person who stared so I looked away and now I’ll never know what that guy finds so important that he needs to have it printed on his face. So I left my keys with the former inmate and went to walk around the store for an hour while they lubed up my car. I don’t generally go to Wal-Mart because it makes me feel bad about society and this trip was no exception. About 75% of the people in there were obese. Approximately 60% didn’t practice daily hygiene and I really wish they had. I’m gonna go ahead and say that for every two adults there was a child, usually screaming, running into me trying to get the fat parent to buy them some shit that would break in a week anyway. All I was trying to do was buy some lotion and I looked up to suddenly be surrounded by a large group of women and their carts. They all spoke with weird accents that were a cross between Ebonics and trailer trash. All had spiral-permed hair with half of it placed in a scrunchie atop their head. Each one of them had on a pair of stretch pants that should have been thrown out in 1990. I cowered in their presence. I was ashamed of myself. This was all just to overwhelming so I gave up my lotion quest and rushed out of the area. I continued to wander around picking up things that I really didn’t need while I waited to hear my name called over the intercom. I got two new pillows and pillowcases, nail polish remover, an eyebrow/eyelash brush, cotton balls, and something else that was so unimportant that I’ve already forgotten what it was. Finally I heard them call me over the intercom and ran to get myself the fuck out of there. "Sorry but the bolt on your oil pan is stripped and they wont let us work on your car when it’s like that." EXCUSE ME??? I’m sorry, did I just wait an hour for you to tell me NO? Well obviously this is a ploy to make me insane, and congratulations Wal-Mart you’ve done it. Not only have you made sure I’m disenchanted with humanity, out $40, never to want children, and insane, but I got sick while shopping in your store. Thank you, thank you ever so. Any way, you guys, I’m in a CD exchange club and I want you all to be in one too. You are all always talking about music so I know you want to do this. C’mon anticrew, pseudoclaire, equivocalady. I want everyone who is on my buddy list to say they want to start making music for one another. Or if you don’t want to do it for everyone just do it for me. I need some new stuff and I’d like a little sample of what you all listen to. Okay thanks. Peace out.
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