Walmart: Chaos, Carts, and Customers Who Know More Than the Staff

Walmart. The land of low prices, high blood pressure, and spiritual tests I did not sign up for.

I swear, it’s like this place has a secret ritual: Before you can even make it past the entrance, you must first fight the wonky-wheeled buggy beast. Every. Single. Time. You’d think I was auditioning for Nailed It: Shopping Cart Edition. The front-right wheel always has dreams of spinning off into traffic while the other is doing its own interpretive dance. And that’s just the welcome mat.

Then there's the self-checkout situation. Look, I didn’t clock in. If I wanted to be a cashier, I’d have applied. But here I am, scanning, bagging, moving like I’ve got a shift to finish, while Karen in front of me is arguing with the scale because it refuses to recognize her cantaloupe. And God forbid the line for the actual cashier is shorter than self-checkout—that’s the only time I’ll reconsider my stance, but only under extreme duress or if I’m feeling nostalgic about human interaction.

Now let’s talk employees. You spot a stocker. Hope flickers. You ask them where something is. They blink. You both stand there in a confused stare-off before they grab another confused stocker, and now you’ve got a team of baffled bodies discussing this mystery like it's an unsolved cold case. Eventually, you flag down a fellow shopper who, shockingly, knows exactly where it is. Because in Walmart, the customers are the real employees—just without the paycheck or the vest.

Oh, and the fashion. Pajama royalty, see-through shirts, booty shorts that double as denim dental floss—I don’t judge, I just watch in awe. Walmart is basically a live meme gallery, and honestly, I’m here for it. Bring the Youtube shorts. Give me the Walmart runway. It’s free entertainment, and I’ve earned it.

Going to Walmart for “just one thing” is a myth. A fantasy. A dirty lie. You either leave with a $200 receipt and deep shame or with nothing at all except a vow to never return—until three days later when you’re back, defeated, and still buggy battling.

The aisles are tight, the chaos is constant, and on certain days—moms, you feel me—I will say “excuse me” in the same tone I use to command my dog. Do. Not. Block. Me. I will cart-swerve like a Racecar driver.

Then there’s the moment you finally find the item you mentally prepared for… and it’s gone. Just the price sticker mocking you. On a Tuesday. Why are we all buying the exact same item like we’re in some subconscious cult of convenience?

And don’t even get me started on the kids. Walmart is their stadium. Their voice? Will echo down twelve aisles and across three departments. It's like Chuck E. Cheese but with more acoustics and fewer animatronics. Mine included. If they’re not adding snacks to the cart like stealthy raccoons, they’re forming an amateur percussion band with the canned goods.

Reusable bags? Girl, if I remembered a bag, I’d probably remember where I put my patience too. If you see me with a tote, I deserve a medal. I barely remember to wear matching socks.

I don’t make eye contact as I pass the greeter on the way out. I give a polite “have a good day,” maybe a smile that says, “I’m mentally escaping as we speak,” and keep it moving. Ain’t nobody trying to hang out in Walmart longer than they have to! And I quietly regret ending up in that clearance aisle. I didn’t need mismatched candles or dented dog food—but now I own three.

So yeah, Walmart is a wild ride. A chaotic carnival of capitalism. But I’ll be back. Because it has everything, and I apparently enjoy suffering with a rollback sticker on top.

If I made you laugh, cringe, or question your entire existence—consider tossing a tip my way.