Moishe Silman, age 57, was protesting the lack of government housing assistance in Israel, when he decided it would be a really good idea to douse himself in a flammable liquid and do his best impression of a Baked Alaska (Author's Note: Check to see if Baked Alaska is kosher).
Fortunately for him (because it appears as if Mr. Silman had belated second thoughts about becoming a Roman...err...Israeli Candle) but perhaps not so much for the same Israeli government that will have to treat his injuries -- it figures: the asshole wants the Israeli Taxpayer to not only pay for his apartment, but now his third-degree burns. The nerve of some people! -- the nearby crowd quickly extinguished the flames before calling for medical help.
Going to Walmart around here is a friggin' adventure. I literally have to get my mind psyched up to even want to deal with the locals sometimes. Then I have to get vaccinations to prevent catching Dumb Syndrome from all the employees. As soon as I walk through the doors, I automatically turn into Captain Picard who then activates shields at first sight of the greeter. The greeter, who looks like a make-a-wish kid whose one wish is to be a Walmart greeter usually slobs "hello" to me as I walk pass. "Activate fake smile...engage", Picard commands. I keep the fake smile activated because next comes the person who could've been the greeter also: The person sitting at a table offering Walmart credit cards. GGGUUUUHHHH, she normally says, and I always reply, "no thank you...I don't need a credit card today".
I set a course for electronics department to see what knick-knacks I can pick up, and always immediately pick up a vessel emitting a warp signature heading right towards me. I can't stand talking to people in Walmart...call me a snob, I guess. In a town that has as many people as students at my old High School, and with me doing my music and the radio show (blah blah), I'm susceptible to strangers coming up to me reciting verses and hooks. I also get suggestions as to what guests I should have on the show. FIRE PHOTON BEAMS!!! "Gucci Man? Uh...great, I'll get on that", I'll say as I roll my eyes so long I almost fall asleep. These degenerates have no concept of real music is, and every day I try to instill my "up North, East Coast, Motown sound" to these people, I lose a piece of myself in the process.
In the aisles, you got your standard scene: Old white couple that's been through it all - the Civil Rights movement, those damn hippies, the birth of white trash, hip-hop, and now a black President. They cant wait until they die, but they just keep waking up...and they hate it. You also got the twenty-something black chick, heavy-set, mu-mu, flip-flops or house shoes on, short hair - doesn't matter because it's not combed anyway, with the too-big kid in the "buggy" (it's the South). And the attractive 30-something green chick that you labeled "not like the rest" from a distance until you walk past her and she smells like you after cutting grass all day.
People on planet Walmart can't count either. If I were the type and needed some extra change, I could always count on the idiot at the register to over-change me by at least five bucks. This is one of the few places here where large numbers of people gather, so it's a real gawk-fest and the cashiers never pay attention.
[update] I'm so moved by the ups and downs of Walmart, I wrote a song about it. Wanna hear it? Here it goes:
