This weekend we ventured into a world to which I will never visit again. The world was called “Wal-Mart” and the experience was, to put it simply, horrible. Simply horrible.

It started out innocently enough. We went back-to-school shopping and Wal-Mart happened to have bottles of Elmer’s Glue for a mere quarter. Plus, they had a great price on the new paperback version of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. We had a mission and, we gladly accepted it.

The trip started off on a good note. We stopped for a Slurpee. On the drive out to Wal-Mart, we passed the cherry ice confection between us and smiled as our core body temperatures lowered to a normal level after battling the oppressive summer heat.

We pulled into the parking lot and noticed what should have been our first warning. It was jam-packed. We had to park in what seemed to be northern Iowa and walk back to St. Louis County.

Now, I must admit, that this was my first trip to a Wal-Mart that I can recall. Growing up, we didn’t have one around, so I never had the opportunity to visit Sam Walton’s greatest creation. Sure, we went to Sam’s Club before, but this is different. Wal-Mart is a symbol of American, for some reason. A town may not have paved roads, but it will have a Wal-Mart and it will be the town’s center of activity.

After all, it’s not every store that will allow you to eat lunch, buy a TV, a pet, clothes, bulk food and get your car fixed in the same afternoon.

Perhaps I should have known before I walked in that this would be a bad experience. You see, the site on which Wal-Mart was built had been under water a few years ago. It sits on a flood plain, less than half a mile from a levy. To me, this isn’t exactly a brilliant real estate move. But maybe that’s just me.

So, we were met by a greet who seemed to have escaped from the same mental ward where Jack Nicholson did his stint in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. He seemed friendly enough, unless you made eye contact with him. Then he’d melt into a pile of tears and screaming fear.

The aisles looked as though they had been designed to accommodate the traffic of carts. That is, until the good people at Wal-Mart felt it necessary to fill it with pallets full of crap. Dog food, paper towels, etc. You couldn’t make it through an aisle if your life depended upon it. Our only way of shopping was to allow one person to stand at an end cap with the cart and allow someone else, the brave souls, to wade through the throng of smelly people and get what we were looking for.

Matilda was often brave enough to do this. “I’m going in for pencils,” she’d say bravely and disappear into a mess of pudgy legs, sweat stained shirts and support hose.

She’d come out of this mess, in tears, carrying poster board. “I tried! I saw the pencils. I almost had them in my hands and then someone pushed me out of the way and grabbed the pencils. It was the last package!” Tears were now streaming down her face. Less out of sadness and more out of abject humiliation. She had gone in with a task and was unable to fulfill it. And the poster board? “I didn’t want to come out empty handed!”

Slowly, despite the best efforts of the rest of Wall-Mart’s patrons, we were able to get most of the things on our list. Including the Harry Potter book, which, I have to admit, was one hell of a price. We had a few more things to look for, so we tried to head into the crowd again. That’s when we snapped. We couldn’t take it anymore.

Now, I’m sure Wal-Mart is a wonderful place. And I don’t want to seem like a snob for saying this but . . . Where in the hell do these people come from? The moment we walked in the door it felt as though we had been sent back to 1975, which was the most recent year any of the customers had updated their wardrobe. Baby Gertrude had more hair than most of the women in the store and, the cumulative number of teeth amongst the group was seven. I checked out the toothbrush aisle and, to no surprise, they were still selling Knight Rider toothbrushes. No one touched them.

Walking down each aisle was like entering into a joust. No one was willing to share the space and people would often park their carts sideways in the aisle to ensure that no one else could traverse the space whilst they used it. Even people politely saying, “excuse me” devolved. Instead of asking nicely the first time, people would immediately say, “Move your damn cart!”

The employees were no better. I think they were shipped in from the social aversion ward at the local Psych hospital. Ask them, “Where is your loose-leaf paper” and they’d respond, “I wash my hands, but it never comes off! Smell that! It’s bad. Bad I tell you. Lord, I’m acomin! I’m acomin! Lord. I just try to do they biddin’. Do you want to see my leg sores? It’s an infection! Stop yellin’ at me!”

In the middle of one aisle, I swear to you, there was a woman sleeping in an electric scooter. Yes, seriously sleeping. Using a package of Charmin as a pillow.

It was then that we decided that we should leave and head back to our comfortable spot, which is the Target of the Gods. (Sure, they call it Target Greatland, but we know the truth!)

We checked out and escaped. Dante never had to enter this level of hell in his search for Beatrice. Following his suggestion, however, Wal-Mart should add the sign “ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE.”

Now, I have to admit that I have nothing against Wal-Mart, nor its patrons. I just have something against this particular Wal-Mart and its moron brigade of patrons.

I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I don’t know why I had to enter the Carnival of Smelly Fools but, I tell you, I won’t go again.

Plus we never got the damn glue.

Sam Walton can burn in hell for all I care. I’m a Target man and a Target man I shall remain.