Dreaded Wal*Mart

DREADED WAL*MART

The so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.

Yesterday (Monday, February 18, 2008) I went out to the dreaded Canandaigua Wal*Mart in search of the elusive Ben & Fat Jerry’s chocolate ice-cream.
CONTRARY TO THE NOISY BLUSTERING FROM THE ALMIGHTY BLUSTER-KING, WHO SEEMS TO BE ON ANOTHER OF HIS TIRESOMELY BORING SUPERIORITY-GIGS, I AIN’T AFFEARED OF WAL*MART, AS HE NOISILY INSISTS.
NOR HAVE I NEVER BEEN TO WAL*MART, CERTAINLY ONE OF THE WILDEST FABRICATIONS I’VE EVER HEARD FROM WEST BRIDGEWATER.
To the contrary, I’ve been to Wal*Mart enough times to conclude whatever puny savings it might allow ain’t worth the trouble.
To be bearable, Wal*Mart has to be a direct hit — include Weggers and it becomes an added trip.
Wal*Mart is one mile and three stoplights beyond Weggers. Go there, find a parking-spot, find what you’re shopping for, and you’ve added a half-hour.
Weggers probably costs more, but avoiding all that “waisted” time is worth it.
So here I am, finished at the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA, making a direct-hit to Wal*Mart only, in search of the elusive Ben & Fat Jerry’s chocolate ice-cream.
I access the vast Wal*Mart parking-lot via mighty Lowes (the onliest way), deftly avoiding Glowering Intimidators in gigantical 5-mpg Chevy pickups, and Granny in her marauding white LeSabre, and park in East Timor, 300 miles from the store.
I trudge barefoot in hip-deep snow across the huge wind-blown parking-lot. “I saw that!” GrandPop says from the open window of his salt-encrusted S10 pickup.
“I have a witness,” a lady in an idling Wagoneer tells the 9-1-1 dispatcher on her cellphone. “That lady hit me and drove away. She knew it!” (When I came back out an Ontario County dippity-sheriff was wandering aimlessly around the parking-lot, roof-lights flashing, trying to find the Wagoneer.)
I finally attained the huge store, entered the supermarket section, avoided a smelly old greeter kissing all-and-sundry, and began searching for the elusive Ben & Fat Jerry’s chocolate ice-cream.
My long search narrowed — this ain’t Weggers, a store I know. I can’t go directly to the Ben & Fat Jerry’s.
First I have to find the frozen-food freezers, then I see an “ice cream” aisle-sign overhead that says this way.
I find Ben & Fat Jerry’s, but guess what, mighty Wal*Mart, the store that allegedly has everything, doesn’t have chocolate either, plus their selection seems smaller than Weggers.
But I suspect Ben & Fat Jerry has discontinued making chocolate ice cream.
Reduced again to Häagen-Dazs®, plus I buy bananas, since theirs look okay, so I can avoid a trip to Weggers on Wednesday (tomorrow, February 20, 2008), when I have a doctor’s appointment that scotches the YMCA (and Canandaigua).
So what do I think of mighty Wal*Mart? This ain’t the first time I’ve shopped there.
I still think I’d buy my produce at Weggers — it looks better.
The new store is better than the old store; still “Bip-Bip” at the checkouts, but at least I wasn’t snapped at by illegal aliens, or grinning store-associates where I was interrupting their donut-break.
But an extry trip just to buy the other stuff still ain’t worth it.

RE: “‘Old guy’ with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.......” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston, who is 13 years younger than me, calls me “the old guy” as a put-down (I also am the oldest). I also am loudly excoriated by all my siblings for preferring a professional camera (like the Nikon D100) instead of a point-and-shoot. This is because I long ago sold photos to nationally published magazines.

“Ben & Fat Jerry” is Ben & Jerry.

“The almighty Bluster-King” is my macho, loudmouthed brother-from-Boston, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say. He makes a lotta noise because I abhor going to Wal*Mart, whereas I should be like him and shop “the greatest store in the universe.” He lives in West Bridgewater, Mass.

“Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.

“Waisted” is how my blowhard brother-in-Boston noisily insists “wasted” is spelled. “Waist” is spelled “waste.”

A “glowering intimidator” is a macho wannabee driver, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.

My sister in south Floridy noisily claims Wal*Mart “has everything,” so I should shaddup and shop there.

In the old Wal*Mart I was snapped at by “illegal aliens” (checkouts) and “grinning store-associates.” Wal*Mart has replaced their old Canandaigua store with a new SuperCenter (pictured). It’s much better.