Things used to be different. Back when I was in my early thirties, I collected a windfall inheritance from my parents. Rather than blowing that load right away on a Ferrari or a brick of cocaine as my scuzzy neighbor suggested, I invested it in my own company. I opened a small hardware store down in the heart of town. Those were some of the happiest days of my life. I'd wake up to a fresh pot of Folgers, head over to my shop, count nails and arrange the plungers in a fashionable way, eat a sensible lunch, and head home at 6:00 to nuke a Swanson's and watch the Jeopardy. Yeah, those were the good times. Everyone in town knew my name, and they'd stop in every other day or so to chit-chat and maybe replenish their supply of gopher poison. I felt like I was living in a wholesome Norman Rockwell painting. But fate had some twists and turns for me, and I would have to learn the hard way that heaven doesn't exist on earth.



About three years ago, the abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town was demolished. Up from the ashes of its carcass sprung my nemesis: Wal Mart. Suddenly, no one in town wanted to come into my shop and buy my wares. Apparently, the promise of a quart of paint that costs forty-seven cents less than mine proved too powerful a ploy for the townsfolk. No one seemed to care that the paint they were buying was made from the ground-up bones of child laborers who died from the noxious fumes at the overseas paint factory. I tried engaging in a price war, but they pummeled me on all fronts. In seven months, I was out of business.

Dejected, I consoled myself with hard alcohol and pastries. In no time flat, I had packed on an extra 150 pounds. I hit rock bottom when my wife left me for the Wal Mart warehouse manager. Et tu, Madeline?

Rather than wallowing in self-pity, I realized that I wouldn't be happy until I had revenge. I needed to jam my fist into the belly of the Wal Beast, rip out its black heart, and bite off a still-beating hunk of the muscle while it stares, gasps and collapses at my American-made shoes. For that kind of mission, though, I knew it would have to be an inside job. So I turned in an application, interviewed with a pimple-faced punk of an assistant manager, and got a job as a cashier. Don't get me wrong'it?s hard work. I'm only able to take two toilet brakes per shift, and I've found myself standing in a puddle of my own asparagus juice many a time, which has only heightened my hatred for the company.

I'm making steady progress in my preparations. I've been mapping the air ducts and testing the response time of the security guard who rolls around the parking lot in his dusty Caprice. I even installed a Pace Edwards JackRabbit Retractable Tonneau Cover onto my Ranger's bed. That way, when the time to strike arrives, I'll be able to sneak my arsenal to work without anyone catching a glimpse and ratting me out. Plus, I get better fuel mileage, and that's good for the environment. But not as good as whipping out the Wal Blight that is popping up all over these United States like canker sores on a rock star's lips.