I work at a Wal-Mart Pharmacy and I have enough stories to publish a book that would make War and Peace look like a Jack Chick pamphlet. The grossest thing I've seen would be the old lady that took a shit on our bench - the stain went up the entire bench and smelled bad enough that they got rid of the bench. Another time an old lady came to my window lifted up her shirt to show me flea bites on her stomach, then pulled it over her head asking if we sold that particular brand of bras. Another time a guy with a tracheostomy was dropping off a new Rx and coughed a wad of phlegm that came out of the hole in his neck and landed on my arm. Another gross thing I heard was a lady on the phone who wanted something for vaginal dryness because when she walked, "it stuck together and hurt something awful" I really could go on for days. I need a new job.

A friend of mine worked at an IGA or something a few years back. One night when he was on cash, a very guy who was in line with his caretaker announced loudly that he's "GOTTA POOP!" before letting out a DBZ roar, dropping his pants, squatting, and spraying diarrhoea all over the floor. Yeah.

I was in line behind this lady, must have been in her 60's or 70's. Quite large, looked like she hadn't taken very good care of herself.

She had about 5 or 6 of the 12 packs of toilet paper on the little conveyor belt thing. At first I thought she was just one of those people who buy a bunch of stuff at once so they don't have to go out that often. That theory went straight out the window when she let out this mustard gas cloud of a fart.

It was so bad that I couldn't breathe. I was literally choking on it.

I was a pretty young kid. My mom had dragged me to Wal-Mart so she could pick up some groceries. Naturally, I was bored as fuck. I start looking around for some something to amuse myself with (I enjoyed pointing out funny products like "Bone-suckin' Sauce" and the hilariously fiber-filled "Uncle Sam" cereal), when suddenly a dark grey blob darted out from between a couple of cans of beans.

"A mouse, mom!"


"No really, look!"

Sure enough, the little bugger was performing a magnificent slalom act between cans of beans. Towards the end of the isle were bags of dried beans. There was a brief rustle when the mouse finally reached the end of the line between the beans, along with the tell-tale clatter of loose ones clattering to the shelf below. My mom seemed terribly amused by this (probably because she wasn't in the market for beans in a bag), so I took that as a green-light to go and investigate. Wedged between the bags of beans, which had obviously been there for some time, were wads of stuffing, insulation, and loose threads. Little mousey was raising a big, happy family!

I was looking for a tennis racket when I see this kid starting to dry heave. His mother hands him a tiny little tissue. Vomit quickly overwhelms the little kleenex that just couldn't. The frothy puke splatters everywhere. His mother looks at him and walks away.

I worked at Wal-Mart for my high school job, from June 1997 to August 1999. My first summer there the company decided to have one of those Parking Lot Carnivals to bring in more shoppers, and hired a carnival company or some such entity to run the thing. Something management didn't bank on (which usually meant this was common sense), was that we got all of the disgusting Carnies and the issues that came along with that.

You name it, it happened. For three days we had Carnies cussing at children in the store, harassing customers, middle-aged Carnies following teenage girls around, and generally treating the store like a hotel.

The last day of the Carnival I went to use the bathroom only to find two Carnies in there using the fucking men's bathroom like it was their own personal shower. Needless to say I hightailed it out of there, and went back about half an hour later. The Carnies were kind enough to leave their dirty clothes lying on the bathroom floor, including soiled underwear. Used, soiled, Carnie underwear.

The Carnival didn't take place the next summer.

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