There is a new phenomenon that is raging across the country, and amazingly, it has graced its influence upon Stark-Angeles. This new phenomenon is having enormously huge effects on the lives of Americans, as well as Stark Franciscans. Americans, and Stark van Dykes, all seem to be concerned with our personal space. We want to extend the imaginary boundary around us to limitless ends. We want as much personal space as we can get. And this doesn’t pertain only to automobiles, for if it did, then we would wait for all those mammoth monsters of the road to run out of gas and die.
No, the part about the entire big phenomenon that concerns me is the new breed of Wal-Mart bars. I’m talking about these huge warehouse bars that are divided into gender-specific, personal-interest-oriented cubicles of fun where everyone is guaranteed to enjoy themselves. You can’t ask someone to meet you at one of these places because you will never find them. The music is loud and intense, the drinks are watered-down and the security team is a little too strict. You can never see a good fight at a Wal-Mart bar because the tight-shirted security crew is always on the scene before any punches are thrown. The only bloodshed will be outside on the sidewalk as the security guys beat that sorry SOB who was trying to ruin everyone’s good time.
Typical bars are usually smoky dives with urine-stained walls. There’s always a few regulars whose bloodshot eyes are being pulled shut by the drooping bags sagging down to their jawbone. There’s a surly bartender that doesn’t like you until he gets to know you. There’s a pool table with three 11 balls but no eight ball. Nobody knows what an ATM is or where you can find one. There are only two drinks: draft beer and bottled beer. Police arrive not to hassle the patrons, but to make sure the place isn’t being robbed, and there are witty things written on the bathroom wall like: “Don’t look up here, the joke is in your hands.” And the folks that look at you funny when you walk in will be hugging your neck by last call. None of this can be found at a Wal-Mart bar.
Wal-Mart bars have scrubbed themselves clean of every nasty, disgusting detail that makes a bar a bar. It’s consumer-driven packaging. Wal-Mart bartenders want your money, not your troubles. The bathrooms are spotless, and you feel bad if you hit the seat. You hate to request a song for fear of being chastised by the DJ.
The Wal-Mart bar is the supersized speakeasy. It is guaranteed to give you as much personal space as you require, and if you are not satisfied with the amount of personal space you are receiving, our security team will gladly remove one or two annoying characters to make room for you and your ego. Your satisfaction is guaranteed. And we are expanding our already ludicrous 20,000 square foot arena-sized dance floor to accommodate all you line-dancing, electric sliders out there. So come shimmy and grind the night away.
Of course, why complain about it, right? I don’t have to go there after all, do I? If I don’t like it, I can just go to my hole-in-the-wall with the other braindead philosophers. I’ll sit and watch them drool out of the side of their mouths as they explain how they lost their fortune and ended up in that dump. Then, I’ll have to explain to them that I’m at that dump by choice, and they’ll laugh and tell their imaginary friends that I’m real funny. And that’s when I’ll look around and think, “Where did everybody go?”
The Wal-Mart bar has taken over. I suppose I could swallow my pride and go. I could learn the electric slide. And maybe I’ll teach a couple of youngsters at the bar some old bar tricks with cocktail straws and dollar bills. At least they’ll be entertained, and I’ll leave a few bucks richer. I’ll just have to keep an eye out for the security crew.<</p>