I had a dream last night that I took over as Chairman of Wal-Mart, which as this piece progresses will be referred to as WM. Short for: WhuddaMess.
The dream had me going to all my WM stores, wearing a referee's outfit of the white knickers, black and white striped shirt thing, the whole get-up. Most importantly, dangling from my neck was a great big shiny silver whistle.
As I walked through the stores, if I heard a baby cry for more than 30 seconds — timing it on my stopwatch — I would approach the parents and blow the whistle sharply and quickly.
“Ten seconds to quiet that child or you will be eliminated from this store! You are interfering with the other shoppers’ WM shopping experience!” I would shout into the bullhorn I carried with me at all times. Did I mention that I carried a bullhorn?
Normally the blast from the whistle would shock the child into good behavior. I wasn’t so much concerned about the crying child as I was about the parent or parents. If a parent cannot control an out-of-control child, they don’t deserve to be a parent.
“Take the kid out of the store, stick a lollipop in its mouth, do something that makes that child behave. Do not stand there and ignore the tempest going on in your shopping cart, and do not stand there bullying your child in front of everyone else in the store. It just makes you look like a jackass and makes me wanna whomp ya upside the head!” I would bellow into my bullhorn.
Then, it was time to take on the folks who come shopping in their less-than-finery. You know who I mean. Those fools who walk into the store wearing big slippers and pajamas.
I walked up to a couple of young women who didn’t have the wherewithal to even run a comb through their hair and blew that whistle as hard as I could.
Up went the bullhorn to my pursed, BonnieBelled lips: Get out of my store you slovenly pig! You are not permitted to shop in your pajamas! You must shower and dress appropriately before coming in to my store!”
Same goes for the chicks wearing slogans across their bottoms, ie Princess. Yes. A princess who obviously sits on her big all day.
And hello — Baby Phat? I do not want to know what’s under that trunk, girl. Take that slogan on down to the pool hall, maybe someone down there gives a rat’s.
I mean, the line has to be drawn SOMEwhere! Bad enough that folks think its okay to go to a wedding or funeral wearing a T-shirt and blue jeans. Well, it is if your cow is marrying your pig, but otherwise, it ain’t! And what would your mama say if she knew you showed up to her funeral wearing your “Genuine Harley Jugs” T-shirt — not even having enough respect to zip up your Budweiser hoodie?
It’s time people got a shock to their system and realized that dressing down just makes you look like the toilet paper you’ve got stuck to your shoe. Pitiful.
I walked through the store eyeballin’ everyone I could. I walked up to the front end of the store and bull horned for management to send me four more checkers.
And make sure they have their teeth clean and they are not wearing any bling!
No bling allowed on my workers. Save that for your after-work parties. Make yourself look presentable and intelligent.
Then on to the door greeters.
Hmm. OK. They always look pretty nice. Always pretty polite.
Suddenly the wah-wah of the store alarm goes off.
I happened to be standing right beside the greeter when it went off.
I blew so hard on that whistle my eyes nearly popped outta my head.
Up went the bullhorn.
“Madam! Let me check your cart!”
I stepped over and took her receipt.
Butter. Eggs. Salt. Pepper. Toilet paper. Tin foil.
“Madam. There is not a charge for the thirty-six inch television set. Please return to the counter.” In handcuffs.
Hey baby. Don’t try to pull the wool over MY eyes! I carry a whistle!
I loved that dream. I knew it was something that should be done, and ought to be done.
Maybe tonight I’ll dream about being a mall manager!