i only wear white when it rains

This guy looking for camping supplies. Shouldn’t someone call John Walsh?

I turn 40 this Saturday.

For the vast majority of the world that is now younger than I, you may not realize that this means plummeting into a deep depression brought upon by an unwanted subscription to More magazine.

It also means my friends are using my birthday as an opportunity to remind me that there are worse things than my face in a 45x magnifying mirror. Like…colorectal cancer or camouflage press-on nails.

So in their relentless pursuit of excuses to drink Pabst Blue Ribbon without judgment, the Copper Monkey & Co are hosting a “Filthy 40th” party for me this weekend in their trailer. And by trailer I mean 6,800 SF house in a gated community whose deed restrictions are sure to be violated when we drive onto the lawn in our NASCAR flag-flying monster truck.

Only at Walmart can you find discarded Hormel pepperoni among the “intimate” wipes.

As you can imagine, shopping for a trash bash theme in Florida is about as easy as buying a sombrero in a Cancun cruise port.

So I set off this morning seeking inspiration from our local Walmart. Because I typically avoid places where upon leaving my hair reeks of fried chicken and apathy, I try to avoid Sam Walton stores.

I prefer Target where my identity might be stolen, but at least they don’t sell concealed weapons permits in the vending machine at the front entrance.

Suffice it to say I am unfamiliar then with the job description of a Walmart greeter. I only know that he eyes me suspiciously through his cloudy cataracts as I search the empty cart wipes container for one last drop of alcohol to disinfect the shopping cart handle that seems to be coated in a layer of mayonnaise. And while I should feel sorry for him because he makes 35 cents a week and serves no apparent purpose, I meet his penetrating gaze instead wondering why he can’t help thwart the spread of flesh-eating bacteria by…I dunno…maybe refilling the goddamn cart wipes? I guess perhaps I’m expecting too much though from a man clearly exhausted following a night of bingo and klan rallies.

As Weekend at Bernie’s and I continue our stare-off, three people enter the store with AK 47s and leave with shovels. But it was me, sprinting in Rocky Balboa-like to escape the cigarette smoke and sex trafficking in the parking lot, that had him wanting to call security. Especially as I rifled through my Lululemon backpack (in which he thinks I could easily conceal an entire 56-pad supply of stolen Always with Wings) for my own GermX wipes that I will use approximately 236 times in the next 25 minutes.

Because doesn’t every child want Sasquatch Beef Jerky in his/her Easter basket?

Once past this intensive scrutiny, I am ass-deep in Easter candy displays reminding me that Walmart caters to God’s favorite children.

Among the pastel-colored M&Ms and the Cadbury eggs I find a Walmart exclusive: Jack Link’s Sasquatch beef jerky.

I realize there comes a time when we must confess that the Easter bunny does not exist, but I cannot think of a more effective or terrifying way to do so than including beef jerky in your child’s basket.

Not sure why I find this so surprising. After all, if I am playing a Walmart word association game, beef jerky has to be somewhere between “anti-fungal” and “everything wrong with society.”

As I delve deeper into the “God Bless America” merchandise that is all Made in China, I find myself in the apparel section which I maintain is the scariest place on earth since I’ve never been to the Gaza Strip.

I initially thought Peggy Pjs was just running in to get Tylenol for her feverish child or that Delta lost her luggage. But sometimes finding a size 17 acid-washed jort IS an emergency, and there is no time to change.
Plus, slippers be soft.

It is there among the camo cut-offs and Built Ford Tough tanks that I find someone who shows me that the best way to dress for the trash bash is to not bother getting dressed at all.

There she was in all her crusty-eyed glory at 10:36 am still rocking fleece pajamas bottoms, slippers and a braless silhouette beneath an inside-out cotton tee, effusing all the style and grace of a lady not too proud to show her tampon string or c-section scars.

I’d take a stealthy of Peggy Pjs, but I’m pretty sure she could enact our Stand Your Ground Laws to shoot me in self-defense.

It’s important to note that while you might be able to escape Peggy and her olive tapenade-like odor, one visual assault you cannot elude here is Walmart’s relentless dick sucking of the Duck Dynasty franchise.

At every turn you’ll find one of those inbreds peddling anything from school notebooks reminding our children that Si don’t need no math to Tervis tumblers from which we can drink our whiskey and RC Colas seemingly straight from Si’s swamp-stained beard.

To hell with literacy or intelligence.

So loathsome I find this show, I only wish it were around when I was dating 16 years ago so that I could have used it as a litmus test.

Once I’ve overheard conversations that include, “Does yer hand smell at all?” and, “I can’t cuz I’m itchin’ all over,” I head to checkout with a Waffle House lanyard for my SNAP card, a stuffed pit bull (to which I will affix oversized testicles), and jorts short enough to show my entire g-string when I bend over to pick up my red Solo cup of spilled wine cooler this weekend. With no less than 23 cash registers and only one working cashier, suddenly our entire economic crisis makes perfect sense. People who shop at Walmart are unemployed because they lost their job waiting in that line.

And as I look at the endless string of pork rinds and Slim Jim-filled carts in front of me, I realize there are many things worse than turning 40.

And most of them can be found right here.