I Go to Wal-Mart

I went for a bus ride today. It’s a statement of solidarity! The other passengers, like me, are the oppressed and the neglected. Their fight is my fight!

Anyway, I rode to the last stop and walked for about a mile until I found a Wal-Mart. I have never been in a Wal-Mart, and nor do I need to in order to know how they stain our society with their cruel and racist management. And so, I made a decision: I will go into Wal-Mart.

I entered the store, and was immediately “greeted” by a brainwashed agent who was no doubt intimidated by my righteous vibe.

I then stopped, frozen in awe of what I was looking at. For here, right in front of me, was the epicenter of capitalist oppression. As legions of uneducated shoppers pushed past me (with some very unflattering remarks), I gazed at the working class and their scars of exploitation.

I stood still.

I stood still and wept.

I wept for the unfortunate immigrants who were being underpaid. I wept for the sad lot of immigrants who were being fucked over by our criminal system of genocide against the working class. Hormonal secretions of solidarity were filling my every pore. My mind, as complex as it is, was being directed against my will into a state of pure rage and hatred. My very biological functions were acting against my body the temple, and I was never so determined to correct the injustices in front of me.

I marched to the service desk and demanded health benefits for myself.

"But you don't work here," they said in their typical sadistic manner.

"Your time is over, for I am an immigrant in your store!"

I had them cornered.

You see, I was not in the store earlier in the day. I was once in another part of the city. But today, I migrated on a public bus to Wal-Mart, and when I entered the store, I became an immigrant. A Wal-Mart immigrant.

And in solidarity with the immigrant protests of Workers Day on May 1, I too demanded fair treatment.

"As an immigrant, I demand payment! I demand a check for my health care! I demand a union-scale wage! I demand social justice!"

They gave a weak response: "But you don't work here."

"Oh really?" I said, as I knocked a jar of some non-organic food product onto the floor. Grabbing the phone, I yelled into the P.A. system, "CLEANUP AT THE SERVICE DESK!"

I stared at them: "Now I do work here. And I demand payment! And I demand a workers' takeover! And I demand your unearned profits! And I demand a boycott! And I demand advocacy protests and protests of advocacy and advocating protests! I DESERVE WHAT I DEMAND! WHERE ARE MY RIGHTS AS AN IMMIGRANT?"

However, I was fooled. Apparently, this was a "sting" operation, as a turned around and saw two thugs dressed in police uniforms. "Hello, Professor," said the whiter of the two, in his most mean-spirited Christian manner. "We haven't seen you in over a week. Maybe you would like to leave on your own?"

As always, I won the battle, and I will also win the war. No, we will win the war. As part of the oppressed class, I know the meaning of suffering, and it makes me fight even harder.

I left the store, weeping. Weeping for the ghastly annihilation left behind me, the grisly extermination of an entire class of people.