Pull Me Out of the Aircrash

I'm not sure when it dawned on me but I think that Wal-Mart makes me ill. I'm not talking about ill in the Beastie Boys sense of the word, but it actually makes me a little bit nauseous.

Perhaps I am bothered by the fact that I can now walk into the store, find the precious items that I need, pay at a self-checkout station, and then leave the store without ever talking to a human. Some may think that such a situation is positively sublime, but something about it seems wrong to me.

Maybe it is the Orwellian image of people walking around a giant warehouse filled with the latest items from Great Value (quite an oxymoron in my opinion) while cameras watch overhead that does not sit well with me. I'm not quite sure what it is, but the beast that Sam Walton created is headed after all of us.