So, have I ever mentioned that writing a blog is sometimes a total pain in the ass? It is.
Especially when I have nothing clever or snarky to say. And then I went to Wal-Mart.
First let me start by saying that if you are new to Durtbagz and have no idea what they are, we are funny novelty shirts and bags, designed with weird street signs. Go see for yourself, because that’s the last we’re talking about them for the rest of this post.
Second let me say that as a rule, I do not go to Wal-Mart. It takes something very out of the ordinary to walk through those doors, and something even worse to get me to drop coin in there.
This qualified for the second degree of extreme: A new litter box for the kittt-eh that lives in our house, that came with my husband, who I’ve been trying to pawn off on some other family for years, who runs when I try to pet her, and jumps on my head when she jumps on the bed to get away from the wiener dog that’s trying to hump her. Her nickname is “Beat it, kitty”.
Obviously, not worthy of anything other than the Wal-Mart.
I haven’t been to Wal-Mart in a long, long time, so I was wondering if anything had changed. I don’t know why I ever thought that could happen.
The whole trip was typical, complete with situation that occured at the checkout counter.
Of course, the guy in front of my had his credit card denied. I was actually surprised, because this guy looked like me; seriously out of place. Because we were both wearing shoes and happened to be under the “grossly obese” weight designation.
Anyway, after running his card multiple times, he calls his bank, only to find out his account number was stolen at a restaurant he’d eaten at, two days before. They froze his account because of the insane amount of charges that happened in that amount of time.
I’m actually feeling sympathetic for this guy, because while this is going on , he’s apologizing to me about keeping me at Wal-Mart longer (I told you we were of the same mold). I didn’t realize my own hell was about to start.
So, he’s off dealing with the card, but my stuff can’t be rung up without a manager clearing out his order. While we’re waiting for that to happen, the cashier asks me if I have a cat. This is a great question: the only thing I’m buying is a litter box.
I stop for a second, weighing the outcome if I say no. I say yes.
She proceeds to tell me about her dog that she had that just died. This goes on for a while, until she’s in tears. I’m thinking this can’t get much worse and that’s when I start hearing about her rabbits. How, they’re fixed but they still do it like…yeah. And this was HILARIOUS to her. I mean, what’s not hilarious about that?
Finally, the story ends with her one bunny looking like he’s wearing a tuxedo, so of course, she had to name him “Bandit”. Duh, what else do you name a bunny that looks like he’s wearing a tuxedo, complete with wingtips? Yes, she actually said that, “complete with wingtips.”
Thankfully, the fully neck-tatooed manager swung by and my gigantic litter box and I were free.
When I got home, said kitty was sitting there, staring at me. I told her, “You better love this thing, you have no idea what I just went through for you.” She raised her little kitty paw, flipped me off, and ran away. That means she likes it.