Ron and Rio (of KY fame) sent me this bumperwizer (along with two new musical choices. Presents are on the Things That Rock list. I need more presents. Thanks in advance.):

You say tomato.
I say Fuck YOU.

It immediately was slapped upon the car and now I have got to thinking. Say, for example, I'm at a gig and all dressed like a hotshot with the 50 pounds or so of photon-capturing equipment. Some client takes a gander at the bumperwizer. Are they offended. Do I care. Onwards.
As if I need further post-hippie, Niman-esque reasoning that WalMart equals the downfall of human civic planning and civil interaction the following happened to Yours Truly this past floral-enhanced weekend.
Bought the mower. Let teen gangmembers assemble it. Oops, they forgot to insert the oil into the engine, but I'm getting ahead of myself and my story. They take turns gleefully mowing down the grassy chaos that was my backyard until said mower is seized, over, kaput. Sunday I used my geometric knowledge and, making calculations, tipped the mower over and stuffed it into the automobile. En route to WalMart/EvilCorp began to notice a most pungent smell of petrol in vehicle. Way overpowering. Arrive at WM and wheel the mower to the outdoorsy section where they say Nope, head over to the Customer Service Desk. En route there one of the wheels wheels right off the mower, damned teen gangmembers. The greeter greets me with a smile (assuredly 100% dentures) and slaps a sticker onto the errant wheel, directing me to Customer Service whereupon I stand in line marvelling at the girth of the neck of the man in the super-extended wifebeater in front of me. My turn at last and the woman behind the counter asks Is there gaaaaas in that. In my best squeaky dumbass girlie voice I say I don't know (I reek, the mower is covered with gassy juices and there's gas on the lino). YOU CAN'T HAVE GAAAAS IN HERE, IS THERE GAS IN THERE. She runs from behind counter, opens gas cap and runs the 3-wheeled mower right out the front door, past the aged greeter. Many minutes later she returns, I get my money, I leave and head to a real store. Another corporate giant, for a re-con (as they say in the mower biz) machine and get indoctrinated into the sphere of those who KNOW small engines, mowing, oil pan dripping, mulching v. shooting. My prof was a man who saw in me his accolyte, a ballcap-wearin' butchy (ha.) type to impart all his mower wisdom and I soaked it all in, for the moment.

Mowing down Love.