Walmart, Stockton, the Day Before My Birthday, and Poultry Juices

Strugglin' for Some Frozen Fruits. Walmart Makes Me Feel Nasteh.

Only one self checkout machine was taking cash. All the cashier's were waiting for cash person to come give their stations change. Only went for a bag of frozen raspberries. Your big beautiful boi was angry beyond measure.

But that's What I Get. 

I came to Wal-Mart. I wanted to save some gas money, so I didn't even go to the nicer one over by Eight Mile. Nope. I went to the  one on Hammer. Where all the Chavez kids go cause they too broke to go anywhere else after school. Ain't no hate in it. I went there too. I did the same thing. I used to shoplift gum from here.

Now hear up. You might be like, "G, why you need frozen raspberries? Also, shop liftin's wrong." Birthday cake, son. And yeah, don't shoplift. 

Every year since I was nine, my mom realized she could avoid buying Baskin Robins Ice Creams, if she baked a cake.  Shit's good too. It's a chocolate cake with raspberry filling. I ain't mad about it, shit's delicious. Shouts to you mamma. But this Walmart was the only place to get those frozen raspberries. Asked my mom, "Can't I buy fresh?"

She's like, "Sure, but the recipe needs Great Value Frozen. Spit in our traditions son." Damn.

Old People Love Walmart's Atmosphere, or Something

So for whatever reason, Winco, Food4Less, FoodMaxx, Lion King, wherever you get your groceries from in Stockton, ain't nobody else got these frozen raspberries. And don't you -- don't you ask me, "But beautiful G, why not go check like Podestos?" Foh. I can't afford that. But to Walmart's credit, store's easy to navigate; I walk in, go left, got my berries; I'm good. But I made a mistake. I took my grandma. 

My grandma loves Walmart. Everyday I come home from work, she hits me with "Beautiful grandson, I need some of 'at oat...meal. Take me to Walmart," I don't even get I love, I missed you, you've grown, your dad's coming back home, nothing except oatmeal and Walmart. So obviously, she waits till the week of my birthday to hear my mom bring raspberries, and she jumps. Whole year, she barely moves, but my birthday is a Walmart trip for her. As soon as she hears her magic word, she's running around, grabbing my keys, wallet, shoes, and her fourteen jackets (oldens get cold), dentures, cane, etc. 

We're in Walmart for like forty minutes, so she can buy her oatmeal (Great Value Reduced Sugar, shouts), some apples, denture cream, slippers, Fabreeze, and ice cream. Whole time, I can't even look the other shoppers in the eye. They're the same. We're all wondering around this mustry old warehouse, broke, Arkansas ass store, the ugly brother of Costco, wandering around. This oatmeal-rasberry adventure's goind down on a Friday too, so we're all even sadder. Like, I should be out, livin up my twenties, but I'm in a Walmart. 

But we're finally done. Ready to check out. But yep. Only one self-checkout register is working. There's like three cashiers operating out of twenty-something lanes, and everyone's angry. Ain't no money, change, nothin. But I need these raspberries. Otherwise, I don't get a cake.

So we wait. I look to the left. I find a chicken that somebody took out of the deli, from under the heat lamp, and left. I wanted to die. I hate when people leave meats, or anything that goes bad, up near the register. Like damn, tell the cashier, you savage. 

I pick it, the sides are moist. Wit chicken juices.

Found this chicken someone started to eat in line and left behind.They took a bite out of the thigh and left the whole thing there. 

Damn.

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Shopping Experience: Go to Target/ I don't have a Costco membership
Berry Selection: Top notch, but probably genetically spliced with a jellyfish/ Rest of Stockton