Oh, Sam Walton. I bet you’re so happy up there in whichever place you ended up in the afterlife. Watching me, and millions of other people, talk about how evil your store is and yet shop there twice a day. Oh, Sammy, Sammy. Well you may be duping me out of money, and small child laborers out of a decent wage, but I’ve got one thing on you. Want to know what? Read on…

I rode my bike to Wal-mart the other day, parked in what I thought was a good spot for a bike, and went in to buy whatever it was I needed that Wal-mart sells for 1/2 the price of anywhere else around here. When I got back, there was a lock on my bike with a note that said, “Please contact security. Your bike is parked illegally.”

Needless to say, I was perturbed. I found the nearest security officer, and he gave me a lecture on parking my bike where the bike racks were (way far away from the entrance) and then said he’d call the head of security to unlock my bike.

Minutes went by. Hours went by. Christmas passed, then Valentines Day. Time blurred and whipped past me and finally it was next Christmastime. I now had a long white beard and lines of maturity and age etched into my face. I also somehow had acquired a cane for walking and a prosthetic hip.

Mr. Head of Security still hadn’t come.

It was around this time that I started to play with the lock. It was one of those locks with four number dials. At the very least, I could stand, looking nonchalant, and turn one number at a time with my hand that was “resting” on the lock, and in 10,000 or fewer tries I’d be out of there.

Lucky for me, Wal-mart security got their security degrees by printing out their own certificates on the Internet. Turns out, the code for the lock was, you guessed it…. 1,2,3,4.

So, I got out of there, bike, booty, and all. Now I just gotta go shave.

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