Dear Wal-Mart Trampler

I've never understood the psyche of the mad-rush shopper. Never could fathom why anyone would be so frantic for a store to take their money that they'd wake even before the guy who makes the donuts to stand in a windblown parking lot waiting for the doors to open. But to each his own. Me, I wouldn't do it even if they were giving the stuff away for free. Want to know why? Because I'd have to stand next to hundreds of people like you.

What does the name Jdimytai Damour mean to you? You didn't know him long. Just maybe a second or two as he passed beneath your feet, I'd understand if you didn't catch the name tag on his smock. He was the poor schmuck you and a trainload of coffee-fueled bargain hunters with nothing better to do than stand in line for hours at fucking Wal-Mart smashed beneath your eager, prancing feet. As you helped shove the crowd further into the depths of cheap flat screens and half-priced Larry the Cable Guy DVDs, did you consider what that figure curled into the fetal position beneath your Adidas might be thinking? My hope is he was planning to haunt you throughout his afterlife.

I don't blame the store. I don't blame the economy. I don't blame human nature. I blame you, and hope that some of my voodoo finds you as you fondle your bargains, safe back at home untrampled.

May every other driver out there cut you off, may you get lousy parking spaces. When you do find a good space may your car be the target of every bird within a 5 mile radius, and may it be berry season. May everything be one size too small, and may you not find any of the receipts. May you be the one to step in the gum, and may your cell phone's battery die just when you need it most. May you find yourself lost and alone in Newark after dark, and may no one offer to give you directions. May they stop making your favorite brand of cereal and may you suffer a lifetime of severe dandruff, acne, and halitosis. May you get passed over for promotion time after time, and may you lose your hair. May you never shed that last 10 pounds, and may all your classmates at the reunion notice your decline. May the last ticket be sold to the person just in front of you, and may your umbrella always do the thing where it flips backward and breaks in the wind. May you forget where your keys are daily, and may you never find Waldo. May your steak be tough and may your beer be warm. May you be the reason for so many warnings on fireworks and may that ringing in your ears never completely go away. May a disorder be named after you, and may a cure be found shortly after you succumb to it. May you never be let off with a warning and may your attempts at various hobbies fail miserably. May your parents leave all their estate to charity, and may your fifteen minutes of fame be during the local crime report.

May Santa stuff coal in your stocking. Preferably he'll set it ablaze as you doze this Christmas eve. Happy holidays.