Burn Baby Burn!
Convenient illustration of our subtext.
If Home Despot hadn't, for some reason, given me a credit card I'd burn the fucking dump to the ground. Lumber, paint & all sorts of other flammable, toxic crap; it'd be quite the show.
Why arson? Got plenty of exercise walking from aisle to aisle looking for three items their website claimed were in stock in whichever aisle & bay, but there was sweet fuck all. Did find one of the five I wanted, & bought a different brand of something else; that's one (One & a half?) of five. Not even empty spaces where the items had been but had sold out. The last of the five was visible, but some wage-slave was stocking the aisle & had it fenced off the entire hr. I wandered in the desert.
Can't decide if I want to summon the energy to send the incompetent bastard manager an e-mail, but his name & address are right on the receipt.
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