In Michael’s very privileged life, he had had the opportunity to visit every continent in the world, travel every ocean; he had sat with royalty from over fifty countries and dined at their personal tables; he had stood on battle fields and observed destruction and victory; he had drunk champaign 8,850 meters above sea level atop Mount Everest; he had played volley ball with a sheik on sun bleached sand with sun bleached beauties and charted a $4.8 billion yacht with a Malaysian general, but never once had he had the pleasure of visiting a Super Wal-Mart.

This dynamic retailer was packed with everything from sugar cookies and radio tires to double-barrel shotguns – all in one very convenient location, all reasonable priced, all on sale twenty-four hours a day and all under devil-awful florescent lights.  This place was so liked by Americans until it only closed on Christmas Day.

And he could see why.

He loved this place too.

The only thing he didn’t love was having to wait in line like the rest of the working-class stiffs.  One almost needed to buy a book to bide the time away.  How could you have ten lines and only two workers?  The idea perplexed him.

As he passed by the many families scurrying about the large store in deep conversation or maneuvering with their cell phones stuck to their faces and hands, he found himself completely entertained by the varying wardrobes, the deep southern drawls and overall informality of the place.

To his amazement, he was knee deep in common life.  He saw sagging pants, too tight skirts, shorts that were more like briefs, women wearing way too much makeup, old women with bad wigs, and kids with offensively snotty noses.  So not only could one get everything that was on their shopping list, they could also get a communicable disease.

      Genius.