Subject: Slack and Wal-Mart almost collide

Date: Fri, 05 Jun 1998 11:02:41 -0700

From: "St. K" <>

Organization: Only as little as necessary

Newsgroups: alt.slack


There is an awful pink cloud of anti-slack hanging over my hometown.

We're enduring the annual ordeal of hosting the Wal-Mart Shareholders

Meeting. Ol' Bud Wal did pitch in $20 mm or so toward the new arena,

but now the bastards are claiming ownership of the entire university and

most of the town.


Celebrity stockholders like Richard Simmons and Kathy Lee Gifford are

lowing around the streets and sidewalks with the tens of thousands of

even pinker (yes, more pink than Richard Simmons)cattle--the common

stockholders. These are people who adore and worship Wal-Mart uber

alles. This anti-event is a week long pep rally filled with brain

numbing sales chants. Wal-MAAART! Wal-MAAART! And they feel that as a

part of that end all and be all, they are very special, very privileged

demi-gods. Po'buckers to a man (woman and child), they don't do well

with the white man's burden, and they are rude and inconsiderate toward

the savage natives. They take our parking spaces. They block off

entire streets with their buses. They discharge pink vermin from buses

and cars wherever their drivers want. They don't use crosswalks, but

proudly meander about on our streets and landscaped lawns. They shit in

our sewer and drink our water. They don't tip. Hell, you can hardly

pry a penny out of their fingers. The shameless liars at the Chamber of

Commerce claim that the pink turds are pumping millions into the local

economy--they claim a base multiplier of 7 (one dollar from out of town

will turn over 7 times in the local economy). Horseshit. Any economist

will tell you that a multiplier higher than 1.4 requires some serious

number faking. But that doesn't matter, because the cheepniss

worshipers are all staying in the vacant-for-summer dorms and eating in

the cafeterias. Res Life is making a few grand--that's it for positive

economic impact.


Last night was the big concert by the pinkest entertainers they could

get cheap--Hansen, Brooks and Dunn, and Reba Smackintire, and I had to

drive across campus at 4 p.m. to pick up my daughter at the Youth

Center, then back across campus to get home. It was HELL! A usual 5

minute, one mile round trip took an hour. I guess my parking hang tag

ID'd me as a local, because every motherfucker with a t-shirt and a

radio made me stop to wait for bus unloading, Wal-Cars always got the

right-of-way, etc. I did manage to get my jalopy up to about 35 mph

once and strafed some disgustingly overweight bitches in way-too-tight,

brightly colored polyester "fashions." I actually grazed one of their

giant asses with my rear-view. They squealed, "slow down," and I

countered with, "FUCK YOU." The only thing that kept me from getting

out of the car and going on a slaughtering spree was that I discovered

how much fun it was to scream insults at them. They couldn't believe

that anyone would dare to scream curses and insults at them, sometimes

in front of their children, always in front of my own seven year old.

My daughter thought it was funny as shit when I'd lay down on the horn,

hang my sweaty head out the window and scream, "move it over, you fat,




were...shocked. Into silence. That one of the natives would be so

disrespectful when, after all, my place was to adore and serve them. I

was truly mad as a hornet, but giggling with my daughter at the same

time. Slack was starting to overcome the dark, pink presence that

seemed to fill my stomping ground from the sweatshop shoes trampling my

neighbors' flowers to the fucking blimps darkening the sky.


Then I drove over to the park to hear the Cate Bros. Band open the

Concert in the Park series. No Wal-Martians in sight. It seemed like

everyone in the park was at least a latent SubGenius--from the pretty,

barefoot teens dancing in the grass to the granny-women holding their

grandchirren and swaying to the Cates sweet rhythm and blues. A former

all-pro fullback and real estate tycoon was really cutting a rug (sod)

right next to the tattooed Jr. High kid with all his hair shaved off

except the bangs hanging in his eyes. Fropsmoke filled the air. A soft

summer rain started to fall, and the dancers knotted a little more

tightly around the gazebo/stage. The air temperature probably dropped

from 90 to 75. The rain just cooled everybody down and allowed us to

dance harder--maybe it made us laugh and smile more easily. Little kids

split their time between dancing in the impromptu little kid mosh pit

and playing in the volleyball courts turned sandbox. My fleet-footed

two year old could practice her 100 yard dashes across the grass and I

could just watch her instead of having to chase her. The slack was

tangible. There was a rainbow across the sky from the sunset. Well

after dark, we all walked or drove home, wet and happy, and had no

reason to honk or yell as hundreds of us drove out the one-lane drive

from the parking lot. Even a little bit of slack will always whip the

shit out of large masses of anti-slack.


Sorry if that last paragraph sounds like I just came from one of Tarla's

brunches, but it was a beautiful feeling.