(You know, the guy in the Bible that basically discovered Murphy's Law. He was plagued by locusts, famine, flood, and the heart break of psoriasis. I think. Don't quote me on that, because there is the sliiiiiiiiiight possibility that I could be wrong.)
I've been shaking my fist at the sky a lot and asking, "Why do the righteous suffer??!!"
Yesterday, God decided to answer me. He said, "Dude... I like messing with you. You're like Wile E. Coyote... you never learn."
So I issued God a challenge, like my Biblical namesake. (I know Job isn't my Biblical namesake... my Biblical namesake would actually be Daniel, who had way better luck than me. Plus he was a pretty great guy, Daniel was. Then again, so was Job, for all intents and purposes. At least, that's what I heard.)
Okay, no I didn't. I'm pretty sure if I offered God a challenge, I would be currently bursting into flames, instead of sitting here half listening to Dateline on ID, waiting for Dr. Phil to start in 28 minutes (more or less) and blogging.
I honestly wish I knew where I was going with this.
I haven't been blogging much because sometimes it's hard to make unemployment, poverty, depression, and feelings of worthlessness funny. Also? The guy who created People of Walmart kind of cornered the market on that one.
(I love People of Walmart... it makes me so happy!)
|How could anyone be depressed after seeing this? *bliss*|
So there I was, happily chortling and guffawing at the sad, sad Walmartians with their asses hanging out and their bad hair and their shame displayed on worn and inappropriate graphic tees, when I received another message from God.
(This one arrived in the form of a letter.)
YOU are a Person of Walmart.
I AM A PERSON OF WALMART.
It took a minute for me to digest it.
And then, it all started to make sense. It's like that moment when you're 14 and you suddenly figure out you're pretty and grew boobs overnight and have magically clear skin despite puberty, only opposite.
DAMN you, Karma!!
Last night, as I was wandering through Walmart and buying my pathetic groceries and Sam's Choice products (because I literally am that poor) I paused to take a look at my people.
As I watched the Fat Girls and Old Men and Obnoxious Children do their thang, I felt a fondness in my heart for them.
I am one of you, I thought to myself, lingering to look at the leggings and oversized t-shirts that are so popular with this culture.
Then I began to contemplate the benefits of being a Person of Walmart.
I compiled a list, so I could better visualize my future:
|1. I can join a cheerleading squad for Fat Girls!!!|
|2. No more Spanx to hold in my muffin top!! I will just hang it over the top of my shorts!!|
|3. I can use my back fat as an accessory!!|
|4. No more pants!!|
|5. I will never again have to wear a bra!!|
|No bra!! Ever!!|
The benefits appear to be endless.
I can't wait to join a Fat Girl cheerleading squad.
But most of all, it's this:
Dear Bra and Pants,
We're breaking up.
It's not you, it's me.
I'm embracing my inner Fat Girl.
|That's right, Inner Me... grab that candy and run with it, girl!!|
I can't fight it. Low, low prices, the pants optional policy, saggy boobs flapping with pride in the wind...
Dear Sam Walton,
I am One Of You.