The One Where Patwoman Goes To WalMart

Now, those of you who know me, know that's a place I usually steer clear of. First of all, the parking lot is hell.

I mean, it's like a place where all the escaped lunatics go after they've broken out of the maximum security ward of The Hospital For The Criminally Insane. They linger there, waiting to do something crazy, unexpected, and potentially life-threatening, under the guise of parking a car. If you're not very, very careful, they will take you out.

That's assuming you don't first take out one of the suicidal children that weave in and out of the cars, three quarters of a mile ahead of their parents. Or that you can even find a parking spot that isn't occupied by empty baskarts and dirty diapers. (Again, the work of the criminally insane.)

Once inside, I have to tune out all the childbeaters. What is it about WalMart that makes people want to whoop their kids in public? I worked a Christmas season at Toys R Us one year and never saw so many ass whippings.

But, if you can do all that... WalMart is a wonderous place. I bought some yarn on sale, a toilet seat, 3 packs of gum, some pens, and this:

You see why I had to buy it, right?