expiredmilkn lies blogs

Walmart’s the only place where you spend two hours wandering aisles, bag your own groceries, pay for them with your own money — and then get treated like a criminal on your way out the door. There’s that person standing by the exit, hand out, eyes on you like you’re smuggling plasma TVs under your shirt. “Receipt, please.”

And God forbid you hesitate. Suddenly, you’re in a standoff with someone holding a neon marker like it’s a badge. I’ve had TSA treat me with more trust after a pat-down. At least there, once you clear security, you’re free. At Walmart, you’re still under suspicion until your paper gets doodled on.

Half the time they don’t even look. They just scribble like a bored teacher grading papers. So why make me stop? Either check it for real or let me walk out like a paying customer instead of a parolee on grocery furlough.

Walmart, I came in for milk and left with shame. Congrats, you turned leaving the store into a courtroom drama.