I go to Walmart to return the windshield wipers I bought that are the wrong size. I bring them over to the service counter and, number one, it is completely covered with crap; there is no room for anything. There's an employee in front of the counter in a wheelchair. He's an older dude with those wire-rimmed, aviator looking glasses. And a comb-over.
I tell him my issue with the wipers and tell him I'd like to just go get the right size.
He tells me that can't happen. Wipers are non-refundable, non-exchangeable items.
I show him that the packages were never opened; they're still brand new.
He doesn't care. They are mine now. If I want different ones, I will need to buy new ones.
I show him my receipt. I show him the unopened boxes. I plead with him. I practically beg him to just let me leave the wrong sized wipers with him and go to the automotive department to grab the correct size.
He tells me that isn't possible.
And I am so mad. SO MAD.
So, when he's not looking, I run back to the automotive department.
When I arrive, I'm getting out of my car into this huge garage area.
Two men greet me. I tell them my predicament with the customer service guy.
They smile. Tell me to relax. They'll take care of it. No problem. Come on in.
We're in the actual store part now. The taller, more attractive man comes up behind me, grabs my wrist, and puts on it a very glamorous, sparkly, diamond encrusted watch.
I turn around to him.
(sexytimes alert)
He kisses me very passionately.
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