Sometimes I go to Walmart and just look at the people.

Especially at the beginning of the month. You know. When all the Social Security checks get issued, and the food stamps.

They have on tattered, holey, sweat pants with years of stains and bleach spots, with a t-shirt from 1985 that is so faded it’s like mauve and puke.

Their fat rolls make it impossible for them to walk. They waddle, wheezing, leaning on the carts. Or drive the motorized ones.

They have six filthy kids wearing oversized or undersized clothes and each kid has long hair and tan skin and they are proudly carrying a loaf of bread and Rock Band.

‘Cuz that was what was important!!!!!!!!

And the language is best.
“Freddie! you get over here by your Father! I’d like to whoop you into next week! Don’t run ahead like that! And quit you’re whinin’!”

The cart holds a month’s supply of soda, chips, frozen dinners, and bananas. Most of which will last them about a week or two. Then they will visit the shelter for handouts.