Walmart Tire Quotes

Wow, how disturbing. Was someone arrested? Seriously, someone should arrest the man who put the loaded gun to Eugene’s head forcing him to work at Wal-Mart for a below-market wage! Give this guy a bitch-slap. No one forced him to work at Wal-Mart; he works there because he chose to work there. Hey, Eugene, if you’re tired of making $11 an hour, raise your value to society. Get your ass over to the library. Wal-Mart can’t offer low wages if they don’t have an endless supply of victims like you.

Afterlife It takes both hands to unfix the spike he drove into the fence post, worrying dirt loose from around its base. A spider spins the ache in my throat. If he were here, what would he be doing? I torch a phonebook, watching the names and numbers burn. I feel the fallen phone line, the horned lark crushed in the mailbox's rusty throat. Weevils become the dream work of fields, the old shack set back in the tree line. I'm tired of the corn, their fibrous heads. I'm tired of the white cocoon in the old jam jar, the fruit bat brimming with darkness. Barbed wire, concrete slab, slag in the rusty water. I walk the yard of Holsteins, dewlaps quivering, nerves pulsing in the udders. Two miles away the Wal-Mart is going in, barns giving way to Pizza Hut, Penguin Point. I look across the silent field. The plow is hard. My heart is hard. Dirt. Distance. It does not end.

The illusion that George W. Bush “understands” the struggles of working-class people was only made possible by the unintentional assistance of the Democratic campaign. Once again, the “party of the people” chose to sacrifice the liberal economic stance that used to connect them to such voters on the altar of centrism. Advised by a legion of tired consultants, many of whom work as corporate lobbyists in off years, Kerry chose not to make much noise about corruption on Wall Street, or to expose the business practices of Wal-Mart, or to spend a lot of time talking about minimum-wage issues.

Everything has something to say about the world we live in—and I found that, in the way I was dressing, in the way I was presenting, I wasn’t speaking my mind. I was apologizing. I was tired of that. I wanted to feel powerful in the way that I defined power. I wanted to be like my mom clomping down the hall in heels. I wanted to be like the queers at HoMo, audacious but in my own way.