Satan's Store For Savings

I woke up Sunday morning, and as I stood, half awake, in front of an empty refrigerator, I felt a sickening despair in the pit of my gut. And we're not talking about a general "Woke up, thought it was Friday, realized it was only Tuesday" despair…we're talking full-tilt-boogie nut-twisting brain-melting despair here my friends. I was out of food, and that meant only one unavoidable truth. I had to go….to….Wal-Mart. Damn. I looked at the clock on the stove…yup…that's what I was afraid of, it was "Shit On Greg" time. Normally I stay away from "the F-word" in my blog (or try to), but there is no other way to say this…I fucking hate Wal-Mart with a passion. I hate it more than is normal and healthy for a rational person to hate a business.

Don't get me wrong, I don't despise Wal-Mart for any altruistic reasons about locally owned businesses, foreign made goods, treatment of employees or any of the other myriad of Left-Wing Talking Points that the Al Frankens of this world like to spew forth from their ideologically misguided cake-holes. I'm a proud member of the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy, which means that I actually prefer my groceries come at the expense of the blood and sweat of the working class, and would gladly pay more than I should for my merchandise if I could have a guarantee that even more of the working class were being repressed. However, my humble Midwest small-town pragmatism prevents me from paying a premium for exploiting the poor, so I have to go…to Wal-Mart.

No, what I hate about Wal-Mart usually starts as soon as I pull into the parking lot. It's 6 in the morning, and already there are approximately 12,467 vehicles in the parking lot. Looks like they aren't too busy today. I find a parking spot conveniently located within 3 miles of the front door. Maybe this won't be so bad after all. I notice, in quite an intense panic, that every car in the parking lot is riddled with door dings, scratches, scrapes, and various other symptoms of what I call "Wal-Mart Rash". I turn mournfully and look at my car, my hell-cab, my best non-living friend, thankful I had the good sense to park away from other vehicles. Just as I'm starting to feel better, I noticed a bedraggled Soccer-Mom thrusting her Mazda Mom-Tank at 50 mph between my car and the Cart Corral. This won't end pretty. I'll just look away.

30 minutes later, I finally make my way to the front door. I step inside grab a cart out of the infinite Stack O' Carts. Of course, the mystical energies that bind two Wal-Mart carts together are in full effect, and nothing short of a low-yield thermonuclear warhead is going to separate them. So I finally find a cart that I'm able to pry loose from the herd. My shopping adventure is now at square one. Let me tell you a little something about square one. I freaking HATE square one, even more so when Shopping is involved. Filled with disappointment that a team of Ninja Assassins has yet to cut me down where I stand and UPS my eviscerated corpse back to my family, I head through the doors. Instantly I'm assaulted by a "Wal-Mart Greeter". What does his job entail other than sitting on a stool and saying “Welcome To Wal-Mart?” Is it possible for him to have a "Bad Day" at work? I'd thought about asking him, but decided against it. The less people I talk to, the better.

To understand a principal reason I hate Wal-Mart, let me explain something about myself. I'm not a huge fan of shopping anyway (unless it's for cars, or car-related accoutrements). I approach shopping like a 16 year old male approaches sex….run in, get done what you need to get done in the least amount of time possible, and get out. Then spend the car ride home congratulating yourself for a job well done. I want to know, without fail, where everything I need to buy is. The Wal-Mart gods have a different plan for my fat ass though. Nothing in Wal-Mart is ever in the same place twice. And if you need something out of the ordinary? Good luck. One day I ended up there needing to buy a Shower Caddy for my bathroom. Now, logic would dictate that this would be located with shower accessories, shower curtains, shower curtain rings, bathroom soap dispensers, and the like. That's what I thought. So why in the nine-hells did the Wal-Mart gods find it necessary to locate Shower Caddies…in the damn Paint and Hardware Department? Much like knowing how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll Center of a Tootsie Pop….The World May Never Know.

Today is easy though. Slim-Fast Shakes, Multi-Grain Light English Muffins, and Lean Cuisine Frozen Dinners on the grocery side, deodorant, tire cleaner, and soap in the non-grocery side. This should be simple, 20 minutes….25 tops. As I'm cruising down the main aisle toward the grocery side, I feel the warm glow of the Wal-Mart gods smiling upon me…perhaps I really am their favorite child. There is Slim-Fast shakes in a center-of-the-aisle display. Coolio. I grab two 8-packs and throw them into the shopping cart. I mentally check them off of the list I carry in my head (as a straight male who lives alone, I am genetically incapable of using a physical shopping list. I keep my needs stored in my brain right behind the opening theme song to The A-Team….just don't ask me what I did at work the day before, I can't remember).

However, my joy is short lived. The Wal-Mart gods have decided that I must pay for committing the unforgivable sin of Hubris, so in unholy vengeance, they rearrange the Bread Aisle. Sonofabitch. Now I have to search through 500 square yards of bread, white bread, wheat bread, rye bread, pumpernickel, bagels, bagel-bread, potato-bread, split top bread, etc. to finally reach English Muffin Land. Ahh, there it is. Now to search through English Muffins, Whole Wheat English Muffins, Cinnamon Raisin English Muffins, here we go…Multi-Grain Light English Muffins. Groovy. I throw three packages in the cart (I refuse to grocery shop here more than once every two weeks). I spin the car around and head toward Frozen Foodville. Weight Watcher Meals, Healthy Choice Meals, Lean Cuisine…rockin'. I throw 2 weeks worth of Panini and Frozen Low-cal Pizza and Panini in the cart. Groceries are done. Now it's time for a break. I make my way to the Automotive Section, the one part of Wal-Mart that doesn't make my skin crawl. I get the Tire Shine Foam, grab a new brush for my fender-liners, a new brush for my rims, and some quick detail spray for the inside.

By the time I'm finished in the automotive department, the rest of Kokomo was woken up, and zombie-walked their way into Wal-Mart. Crap. Screaming kids, their white-trash parents beating them included, are now blocking all 529 routes from Automotive to Health And Beauty. To be honest, I'm actually surprised Wal-Mart even sells deodorant since it's obvious from the scent of Bubba-The-Redneck-Hutt blocking my path that neither he, nor his wife, know how to use it. Oh well, their loss is…quite frankly…my loss as well. Holding my breath, I run past the Gooey Duo at speed fast enough to send their matching camouflage suspenders flapping in the breeze. I finally stop and catch my breath in the Soap and Deodorant Safety-Zone. Surely there are no smelly bastards here to commit wanton acts of Olfactory Assault on me. Realizing my Journey Through Hell is almost at an end, I quickly throw 2 cans of Rite-Guard, and one 8-pack of soap into the cart. The Promised Land is within site. One last hurdle to cross.

Unfortunately, a Wal-Mart shopping trip is set up much like a 1980's Nintendo Game. Just as the end is within site, the final boss rears his ugly head. In this case, the final boss takes the form of the ninth circle of hell…otherwise known as the Check Out Lanes. Now, our Wal-Mart is fairly standard. 87 Cash Registers, of which a maximum of 3 are ever staffed at any given moment. I pick the lane with the least amount of people in it, and notice that the same bedraggled Soccer-Mom from the parking lot is in front of me with three grocery carts piled high with groceries. I glance pleadingly up at the cashier and notice that my demons are now compounded as Zippy The Wonder Slug is manning the laser scanner.

The Soccer Mom empties her cart of what appears to be one of everything offered in the store, and Zippy begins running them across the laser scanner. I swear, if there's a price check that comes up, I'm taking hostages. 20 minutes later (for those of you playing the Home Version of this sick game, I've exceeded my Wal-Mart time by at least 20 minutes now) I make my way forward so that it is now, officially My Turn.

"Hello…….How…….Are……You…..Today" Zippy asks me.

I assure her I'm fine (but neglect to mention that if I had a bulldozer at my disposal, this store would be flattened).

"Did……you……find……every…….thing…..you…..need?"

Once again, I assure her I did (failing to mention that their rearranging of the bread aisle was a pointless exercise in assaulting my mental state)

Not that she would have noticed, since she is incapable of talking and scanning at the same time, I'm sure any answers outside of "yes" and "no" would have either gone completely ignored or, more likely, caused her to completely Vapor Lock at which point the Greeter would probably have to come over and reboot her. Maybe that's his job description.

In the end, my bank account is $40 lighter (not bad for 2 weeks worth of groceries I suppose), and overall the shopping trip was a pretty average one. I've had much worse. Every now and then, I end up having to go to Wal-Mart on the first of the month when the geriatric set sees fit to escape from the Old-Folks home and clog the aisles while shopping for Geritol, Metamucil, Oatmeal, and Ben-Gay.

Now, no doubt some of you are reading this and trying to figure out what my gripe is about Wal-Mart itself since most of my story has revolved around other people shopping or working in the store, and that factor varies from location to location. First of all, you're wrong. Dead wrong. My friend Matt in Chicago proposed a theory to me several years ago that there only exists one Singular Wal-Mart in the known universe, and each "store" is actually a dimensional gateway that, upon walking through the door, seamlessly transports you to that one ethereal Wal-Mart. It's a good theory, but is tainted by the fact that despite using words like "dimensional gateway", and "ethereal", this guy actually sleeps with a beautiful wife every night. Sometimes life ain't fair.

Why is it, when you're in Wal-Mart, the in-store music system occasionally interrupts it's constant playing of Christopher Cross's Greatest Hits to play commercials designed to entice people to shop….at…Wal-Mart. I'm already in your damn store, please don't play me a commercial trying to convince me to shop there. I've already survived the hell that is your parking lot, I'm sure not going to abandon my car right now and head to Kroger.

Second of all, despite how big Wal-Mart is, they only stock the items they want you to buy. Now, I like my rap and Hip-Hop music. However, unless I want to buy the censored versions of the CD's I want, I have to shop at Best Buy since the Wal-Mart gods have decided that I shouldn't be listening to that music. Ditto for Maxim Magazine. If I want to buy it, I have to go to Kroger. And quite frankly, I'm not convinced that Kroger exploits the working class enough for my sadistic Republican amusement.

So between the constantly shifting layouts, aisle ways cramped with falling-apart display stands, intrusive brain-washing commercials, limited selection (why the hell do they not sell Pepsi One?????), and bottle-necked Cashier Counters, even without my fellow shoppers, I would still find plenty of dislike about the Wal-Mart Experience. I demand satisfaction for my time and money, so they damn well better treat their employees like indentured servants, something good has got to come out of that place.

Things To Realize About Men

Because I am in the process of deleting my old MySpace blog, some of my entries here will simply be reposts of things I originally wrote there. This was one of my first blog entries over there, and remains one of my favorites.

OK, so I'll admit it....from time to time, my frustrations seem to have a bit of a misogynistic air to them. I certainly don't intend them to come out that way, but much like Ted Kennedy driving off of a bridge, some things are just unavoidable.

But, in the interest of "fair play", I'll use this blog to take a few shots at my own gender. So ladies, pay attention, this one is for you:

1) When you are talking to a man in preparation for you first date, it is rather worthless to ask him if he's talked to his friends about you. Chances are, unless he's just looking for a quick lay, that he has. But here's the catch...he hasn't TOLD THEM anything about you other than basic Name, Rank, Serial Number information. Chances are, what he's said boils down to a sentence similar to "Oh, I've got a date tonight...just some skirt I've been talking to online. She seems cool enough I guess....I hope she like Mexican Food, because that's what I'm hungry for. Dude, we haven't gone out for Mexican in months" and the conversation will deteriorate from there into comparing various Mexican Restaurants.

Now ladies, I understand that your first instinct will be to be insulted or even upset at this apparent slight...but that's not it. Inside, this guy is probably tied in knots and can't think of anything more profound to says "Gar-huh....huh...she's pretty....I hope she likes me". But because we're men, and we enjoy keeping our friendships with other men as superficial as possible (yes, even our best friends), we're not going to tell them about any insecurities or apprehensions we have over meeting you. Such a declaration would be viewed as weakness to other men and our hero would quickly be yclept with a girls name (something insulting, like Susie, or Janie) and maybe even tossed a good old fashioned beat down. At the very least, he's going to get nailed in the shoulder and teased mercilessly by his fellow males. This is how we bond. You can't change it. Please don't try.


2) If you ask a man to tell you a joke to put you in a good mood, I guarantee one of the first jokes that's going to spring to mind is going to be something along the lines of "What do you tell a woman with 2 black eyes? Nothing! You already told her twice". Now, the ability to suppress that joke and replace it with something about kittens or farmers or lawyers is what separates "nice guys" from the rest of the pack. But please, don't tease yourself into thinking because we didn't go for the chauvinist laugh that we don't find it funny. We do. You don't believe me and want to test this? Sit down with your man and watch the 2004 remake of "The Stepford Wives". Toward the end of the movie, Christopher Walken makes the announcement "Men! Control your WIVES!". Watch your mans facial expression at this part. I can guarantee you that your man will let loose a smirk, a grin, or at the very least a momentary widening of the eyes in humorous amusement. This doesn't mean we all AGREE with that sentiment, but it touches on something long dormant in the Domesticated Human Male. No amount of tears will ever flush that spark from us, so please don't try. As long as your man doesn't outwardly ACT like that around you, just let it ride.

3) Men hate dating. We hate a lot of things....Taxes, Gun Control, Hippy-Liberals, Hybrid Cars, and Any TV Show with the words "Desperate" and "Housewives" in the title....but we hold a particular loathing of the modern dating ritual.

Engrained in each mans DNA is the blueprint from the caveman days where we would see a cavewoman we liked, smack her over the head with our clubs, and drag her back to our cave (or the backseat of our '69 Charger....whichever is closer).

However, we are now forced to participate in the "dating ritual" wherein we agree to meet on some neutral territory and attempt to make polite flirty conversation whilst paying strict attention to parts of Rules Number One and Two(see above if you've forgotten....then look into special ed classes on reading retention).

We will feign interest as you talk endlessly about your pet cat you had as a child. We will laugh at your jokes, we will be polite, we will be friendly...hell, some of us might even SHOWER before we show up...but don't bet the bank on that.

And at the conclusion of the date we will fumble clumsily as we try to decide whether to shake your hand, pat you on the shoulder, hug you, kiss you, and just nod and say "I'll call you".

So ladies, if you want us to kiss you, let us know....be specific, don't just flip your hair and then say to us three days later (once we are forever locked in the black hole of your friend-zone) "Well, you should have kissed me, I really wanted you to...now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go ride my mechanic like a rodeo star, then come crying to you when he doesn't call me the next day"

Yes, in classic times, men were supposed to "Make The First Move"...however, much like honest Democrats and Personal Responsibility, our "Making The First Move" has been rendered extinct by the one weapon you have in your arsenal that we have no defense against. The Speech. This brings us to our next rule.


4) The only thing men hate more than dating is the speech. And ladies, don't sit there in doe-eyed wonder and say "What Speech are you talking about Big-Daddy?" You know the speech. You've known The Speech since before you could talk. It's the "Lets Just Be Friends" speech. You have it memorized. In the good-old-days, when little girls played with Barbie and Ken, they always had Barbie and Ken get married. This no longer happens, and it has nothing to do with Ken's distinct lack of genitalia, nor his obviously questionable sexual preference. This happens because women have discovered that The Speech gives them power. Man leans in for a kiss, woman stops him and says "Look, you're a really Nice Guy (don't even freaking get me started on Nice Guy either), but I think we're better off as friends". We hate this. We'd ask you to stop, but we'd have better luck asking Nancy Pelosi to stop putting kittens in the microwave and eating small children. We haven't made a "friendship" decision until we at LEAST see a nipple. Up until the nipple makes its first appearance, chances are we don't want to just be thrown into the "Friend Zone".

5) If the date continues on from dinner to a movie, please respect us enough to NOT ask us what movie we want to see as we're standing outside the theatre looking at the marquee. You see that movie poster with Angelina Joile and Jennifer Aniston dressed as cheerleaders, with their hands on each others asses while a '67 Mustang decked out with machine guns is driving away from a fireball that used to be dirty stinking terrorists? Yea. That's the movie we want to go see. If it were up to us, we CERTAINLY would never dream of dropping $14 on two tickets to go see a movie about an emotionally scarred 11 year old who learns to love again because her estranged father bought her a horse that only she can tame. If it were up to us, we wouldn't go see that movie if you super-glued our ball-sack to a cannonball and fired it through the theatre doors, while offering Lesbian Oil Wrestling during intermission. So spare us the "I want your opinion" talk, and just tell us what movie we're going to see. We'll laugh at the funny parts (if there are any) and we'll offer you one of our napkins to use as a tissue when you're bawling at the end of it. It's a small sacrifice we make for Gender Harmony. We don't expect payback....and I'm certainly not saying this to make you feel bad in any way, this is only for information. Personally, I feel that it's differences between the sexes like this that make relationships fun.

And while we're on the subject of movies, please do not sigh, or watch the clock while we are at the Self-Serve Butter Dispenser with our Jumbo Bag O' Popcorn. Yes, I realize we just polished off a 32 oz Prime Rib complete with Twice-Baked Potatoes at the restaurant. That was then, this is now. Has the bag been transformed into a soggy ball of pulp and can we forgo eating the popcorn and instead suck it through a straw? No? Then we aren't done buttering it yet. Don't worry about the other men in line behind us...they know the score, and their only anxiety is that we're going to drain the butter dispenser before they get their own paws on it's artery-clogging goodness. Butter is less a condiment to men, and is closer to a beverage. As long as we don't wipe our greasy mitts on your purse, please don't complain.

I'm just sayin'

You Think That I'll Be Bad For Just A Little While

Welcome to the new "Bad For Good" blog. This blog was originally started in January 2007 on MySpace. However, MySpace is more focused on "Social Networking" and less on allowing robust blogging tools. And since my Social Networking skills are somewhat suspect (ok, let's be honest, I have all the social skills of rabid wombat at times.....but not always....sometimes I'm smooth like butter....real butter, not the fake margarine crap that gets all lumpy and strange when it's melted....now I'm hungy for something buttery.....DAMN IT!......wait.....where was I? Lets's start this thought over).

Oh, yea, Social Networking Skills.....well...ok, my social circle consists of family and friends that I talk to on a regular basis, so I really didn't see the need to keep a MySpace Page active to "keep track of out of town friends". Between my E-mails and Phone Calls with most of my "out of town friends" on an almost daily basis, MySpace wasn't something I personally deemed necessary. I pretty much only used it for blogging anymore. Anything else about my life, well, the people who know me best know everything about me, so there were no surprises there for them other than what my Profile OCD was going to kick out that particular week.

So anyway, yea, this is my new blog. And hopefully we're gonna have a lot of fun here. We're going to talk about cars, politics, women, movies, music, television, books, women, video games, and probably women every now and then.

And just to clear up any confusion right now, "Gonna Be Bad For Good" is a reference to a Jim Steinman song. When I first picked that as the name of my old MySpace page, I thought it was pretty straightforward and did a decent job describing me. But I was actually questioned several times about it's "meaning", there is no deep "meaning" behind it. It's simply a song that I thought made a cool sounding blog name. If you think that much about something as to try to find the "meaning" behind it, this blog will probably fail to satisfy your intellectual cravings. Either that or you really need to get laid. I'd place money on the latter.

Here's a video for that song so you know I'm not just talkin' out of my ass. Please ignore the video, it's some annoying Japanese Animation Bullshit, and I freaking Hate Japanese Animation.