My first name is Cashier. My last name is Andrew. I’d like to tell you a little about myself, the
last four digits of my social security number are 4735 and if I can not be properly identified by my
first and last name, then you can call me Andrew Who. “Who” is the first three letters of my
original last name, the one I sacrificed when I became part of my new family, my Wal Mart
Assimilation into what I like to think of as the “Wal Mart Collective” was simple. The interview
consisted of two questions: Would you die for Wal Mart and more importantly would you kill for
Wal Mart? Answering yes to both with little hesitation was unheard of; I believe that my response
is what made me different. Upon answering, I was handed a crying baby and a handgun and
given no instructions. Holding the weapon to the head of the baby I squeezed the trigger without
faltering, though nothing happened. Trickery, the gun was not loaded; it was a test, one I
Part two of the hiring process involved pissing in a cup at a small clinic downtown. This was
substantially more difficult, like the first test, my target was small and shaking as I nervously
clutched the cup in my unprotected hand. Trying to avoid hitting my hand with my golden stream
of impurity was difficult; I had an erratic tremor like Michel J. Fox. Brainstorming, I decided to
start pissing on the floor and adjust my aim into the cup midstream, the floor was my victim, but
I was safe. Sacrifices must be made.
Apparently Wal Mart doesn’t search for paint thinner in its drug screenings and I was spared.
Returning to Wal Mart a man in a dark velvet cape with a long, white beard approached me. He
was Training Coordinator Joseph, and demanded I refer to him as, “Beloved leader”. He
instructed me to head to the Training Room for what he referred to as “Reeducation”. I knew that
I was embarking on a strange journey, one that I’d never experienced before. I was not fearful;
instead I maintained a heightened sense of awareness. There was once a time that I used my
date of birth for my perspective of time. Now there is just life before Wal Mart, and life after.
Walking towards the Training Room, I observed many strange creatures, with predictable, yet
highly peculiar behaviors. Wal Mart customers are similar to real people, they’re just more
obese. They seem to graze primarily on organic substitutes for regular food and a strange liquid
sugar. Despite organic foods costing more, thus mollifying the bargains offered at Wal Mart, they
seem quite popular. I approached a young woman wearing a hooded sweatshirt and shorts,
which apparently is the state mandated uniform of pretentious assholes. I asked why she was
purchasing organic Oreos. She claimed that despite the increase of cost, “organic foods are
good for you!” I didn’t know what to disagree with first, her outfit or the concept that an organic
Oreo won’t make you fat. Wal Mart consumers seem to enjoy believing in logical fallacies.
Instead of drinking water, they consume a dark brown, liquid sugar. It has the appearance and
viscosity of motor fluid; presumably it tastes similar as well. Purchased in mass quantities, the
average serving seems to be two liters. Most have no actual nutritional content; however the
package claims the beverage to be “hydrating”. I’m sure if you ask Kevin Costner, he wouldn’t
drink piss again, even if it is hydrating. However, some of the liquids did contain some form of
nutrition. A seemingly popular example is Pepsi Max, despite having more caffeine and sugar
then regular Pepsi, it contains various degrees of minerals and vitamins, therefore I concluded
that it must be healthy. I was becoming one of them.
Wal Mart customers come in three primarily distinguishable groups. The hierarchy is established
as follows: the cyborgs, adults and the younglings. The cyborgs are slow moving beast of
immense size. They are similar to the form of humans; however their figure is obscured by
massive amounts of excess flesh. They are affixed to an odd wheeled device that is powered by
a small rechargeable battery in the rear of the mechanism. Similar to the spacecrafts in War of
the Worlds, they use long arms to reach out and capture substance which they secure inside a
cage in the front of the apparatus.
The adults are very fleshy and large as well; however they are still able to stagger by their own
means of propulsion. They attempt to maintain control of the younglings with erratic shouts of
unintelligible speech, while the younglings typically respond with loud crying or screaming. Many
of the younglings are propelled by a concealed wheel; they careen at great speeds down the
aisles by shifting their weight to their heel in the midst of a full speed run.
After 25 minutes of walking at a continuous pace, I reached the back of the store. Passing
through the “Associates Only” doors, I made my way to the training room. Upon arrival, Beloved
Leader was waiting for me. Beloved leader baton’d a thick packet to me and instructed me to
read, it was the available positions along with their job description. I was immediately intrigued at
the prospect of working in the lingerie department. After a moment of fantasizing, I was disturbed
at the thought of folding hammock sized panties and decided to reevaluate my decision.
I opted for being a cashier, the decision was mostly arbitrary, and I felt that frequent interaction
with modern Americans would be enlightening, edifying and exciting. I was wrong. The training
room was reminiscent of a school trip I invoked on in the third grade, the one to a
slaughterhouse. The room had the scent of weak potpourri which slightly obscured the
overwhelming body odor emitting from my fellow trainees. Like cows at a slaughterhouse, the
other new associates and I were unaware of the impending doom we faced. Quietly sitting, no
one focused their gaze; they simply let their eyes travel around the room. I seated myself next to
the other trainees and introduced myself, none of them were important enough to write of.
The Training Room 1s decorated with motivational posters, which featured human-like figures
with a giant yellow smiley face as a head. All of the posters contain a universal element, a
smiley face person in a wheelchair. Perhaps this implied that Wal Mart is an equal opportunity
hirer, or perhaps that’s the price one pays for mistakes. After all, what kind of cripple is that
happy? Beloved Leader subjected us to Computer Based Reeducation, or CBR. The CBR is a
computer program that requires reading lengthy sections of information followed by simple
questions based off the material. I resisted reeducation by putting my body in one place and my
mind in another. With eyes glazed like a holiday ham and drool protruding my lips I arbitrarily
manipulated keys on the keyboard in front of me. I was not surprised when I passed the CBR.
Like a cog in a colossal machine, A Wal Mart employee does not need cognizant thought.
Beloved Leader then grabbed my shoulder and ducked his head near my ear. He gently
whispered, “Remember where you are. This is Wal Mart; death is listening, and will take the first
man that screams.” His words echoed through me, my mind screamed for rescue, but the
screams were silenced by fear. I donned my blue and beige uniform, wearing the uniform was
reminiscent of my cultural heritage. This must have been the feeling that members of the
Hitlerjugend experienced before marching headfirst into conformity. Before, I would like to believe
that my individuality was worth more then eight dollars an hour. I found comfort in realizing that I
was creating more then personal financial gain, I was part of something bigger than myself. Wal
Mart has more associates then the United Army has soldiers, it is single handedly more
powerful then any fighting force on the planet and its reach extends to over 150 countries across
the globe. It is even theorized that in the event of war, the United States government would
attempt to subsidize Wal Mart employees for combat training. Their superior numbers would
overwhelm the opposition, and their complete obedience would blind them of fear. I was
becoming one of them, assimilation was unavoidable. I chose to be in the hand of the Sam
Walton, rather then in his path. I was given my nametag and instructed to peel little letters off of
a sheet and place the sticky side of the letters onto my nametag. After writing the name,
“DIZZLE”, I was instructed to peel off the letters and start over. When my properly created
nametag was finished, I clipped it to my shirt.
When I wore my nametag, fellow associates became unwelcomly polite. Proper etiquette
dictates that upon meeting a fellow associate for the first time you must read the name on their
nametag and interject it into a generic greeting. After that, if you happen to see the associate
again you must simply nod at them.
Beloved Leader guided me around the store; during this tour I began to understand the immense
size of Wal Mart. Looking up at the hundreds and hundreds of halogen lights on the ceiling, all
twinkling with a dim, soft glow, I felt so small and insignificant. In that moment, I was still.
Among the frantic passing of younglings, abrupt shouting of adults and the occasional passing of
cyborgs, I was motionless.
Beloved Leader escorted me to the front of the store and assigned me to a register. I droned
non-stop, the constant beep of the register and poorly selected country tracks over the intercom
was the only sound I heard. Everything else was turned down. Every customer I saw, I greeted
with, “Welcome to Wal Mart, how are you doing today?” A few hundred beeps later I would hand
them their receipt and instructed them to have a nice day. The perpetual soundtrack of my life at
Wal Mart was provided by Wal Mart Radio. Wal Mart Radio is a family friendly radio program
exclusive to Wal Mart. Their playlist consist of only 35 songs, all of which are royalty free and
laced with advertisements. The songs were typically dated country music, it was as if Wal Mart
was testing me, trying to crack my mind and stir my brains. This continued for nine months.
On the first day of December, nine months after I began working for Wal Mart, I was reborn. My
incubation in Wal Mart’s bowels was complete, restored with a new sense of vigor; I had to end
the monotony. It is impossible to say why, after nine months was I possessed to achieve
freedom. I researched Wal Mart’s policies and discovered that the only ways out of Wal Mart
was in a body bag or to become what is known as a “Suppressive Person” or “SP”. I feared that I
would become like the other aged and broken Wal Mart cashiers. Like caged lions, the fire had
died in their eyes, leaving them with a cold steely look. This eerily blank look would be held until
their final wink. The only alternative is to become a SP, which is held as the ultimate dishonor. A
SP is a person who is self destructive; they consume those around them with disloyalty,
disobedience, recklessness and passion. To become what Wal Mart considers a SP, you must
be terminated from the Wal Mart collective. Upon becoming a SP, no members of the Wal Mart
Collective may speak with you, you are to be shunned and loathed for your heresy. I had been
brainwashed to believe that becoming a SP is the most dishonorable and unforgivable end to a
Wal Mart career. I was afraid of both outcomes, is a noble, unselfish death more valuable than a
dishonorable, cowardly abandonment of my duties? I had made my decision, I figured we’re all
dying in the end and it was time to shake things up. I had to reignite the fire that was
extinguished in the eyes of my Wal Mart family.
The next morning I woke up willing to die for a cause. I stood atop a large hill overlooking Wal
Mart, I readied my supplies, which were secured in an inconspicuous black duffle bag. I wore a
beige trenchcoat, vivid blue dress shirt with beige slacks. My style reflected the way I intended
to live what was left of my life: dangerously. I coolly approached Wal Mart, using telepathy; I slid
the large entrance doors aside. The People Greater staggered towards me, he reached with a
hideously disfigured outstretched arm which gestured me to halt. To avoid suspicion, I obeyed.
He attempted to greet me as is his duties but I stopped the deformed wretch with my gaze. He
saw something different in my eyes, something alarming. He paced backwards and then began
to flee his position as quick as his gnarled legs could carry him. With no guard, Wal Mart was
subject to my interpretation of justice.
I immediately began to sabotage all the carts in the cart valet. I loosened one wheel on every
cart and tightened the wheel next to it. Creating a squeaky monstrosity that could only make left
turns. This would surely slow down customers while I began my diabolical plot. I then hit produce
for phase one; it was a logical attack point as it is geographically convenient and had few
associates to protect the goods. I removed my first weapon of destruction, several bottles of KY
personal lubricant. I placed them strategically on the displays next to all phallic shaped
vegetables. Afterwards, I moved on to the meat department for phase two. Trying to avoid
detection, I went into the freezers and pulled leather, farming gloves from my bag and waited. As
customers went to grab Orange Juice, I would reach out of the freezer and hand them the carton
personally like in the commercial. This confused Wal Mart shoppers thoroughly and excited
them to the point of disabling panic. For phase three, I made my way around the store, crossing
out “ociates” from all the “Associates Only” signs. Phase four was simple; I doused the main
aisles with cooking oil. Younglings slid uncontrollably into displays creating catastrophic
collisions. Since I had yet to be detected, I initiated Phase five or what I called, “End game”.
I approached my register and flicked my light on. I had seen thousands of customers before and
greeted them in the same manner. However, the first customer I processed that day was
different. He was a heavy man, wide as he is tall. I greeted him with a mandatory smile and said,
“Welcome to Wal Mart. Go ******** yourself.”
Within minutes, I was discovered. Bound in shackles, I was lead into the Detention Chambers.
The chamber was deep inside the vast linoleum jungle that is Wal Mart. Upon arrival I was
greeted by the Elite Three, a collaboration of the Wal Mart masterminds. Elite Carol, Elite Sean
and Elite Mark looked down upon me from their dark oak thrones. Elite Mark demanded in a
booming voice, “EXPLAIN YOUR HERESY!” I looked Elite Mark in the eyes and explained, “I am
no longer a pawn; I am Andrew Whorley!” Elite Mark responded, “I WILL CUT OUT THE
TOUNGES OF THOSE THAT DARE UTTER YOUR NAME AND ERASE YOUR NAME FROM
RECORDED HISTORY! YOU WILL BE FORGOTTEN, YOU ARE NOBODY… NOBODY!!! ”
I realized then what had eluded me before, you don’t need to be somebody to make a difference;
you need to be yourself. I was escorted off the premises, and demanded to never return. Wal
Mart has forgotten me; my life is contained in a cabinet, locked away in a corporate office, filed
with the millions of other terminated employees and Suppressive Persons. My first name is
Andrew. My Last name is Whorley. The world will forget this name just like Wal Mart has, but I
will never forget the day I reclaimed it.
- Title: The Wal Mart Manifesto: Andrew
- Artist: Shocktop II
The Wal Mart Manifesto is a mock epic that depicts my journey as a brainwashed Wal Mart employee. The tale leads to my ultimate realization and eventual escape from conformity. This hilarious epic consists of several abrupt changes in both tone and style to keep the reader interested.
- Date: 08/22/2008
- Tags: walmart satire comedy epic hilarious
- Reference Image: