The Misanthrope’s Corner

IT all started when I went to the mall to buy a new toaster. It should have been a day off, which in my case means not writing about America, not taking notes on America, not thinking about America. But such days don’t exist. I got a column out of my day off, and here it is.

Shopping at the big discount chains is a painful experience for me because I’m scared of the Official Greeters, especially the one in the wheelchair. As soon as she sees you come in, she revs up and zooms in on you, shrieking, “How can I help you have a fun-filled shopping experience?” They had her in a TV ad once, racing through the aisles and burbling, “I love people! I love people! I just love people!” Having been stalked by irony all my life, I know an omen when I see one. If there’s the slightest chance of someone being run over by a people-loving disabled American, it’s a dead cert to be me.

About the Author

Florence King

Florence King was a contributing editor of National Review.

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IT all started when I went to the mall to buy a new toaster. It should have been a day off, which in my case means not writing about America, not taking notes on America, not thinking about America. But such days don’t exist. I got a column out of my day off, and here it is.

Shopping at the big discount chains is a painful experience for me because I’m scared of the Official Greeters, especially the one in the wheelchair. As soon as she sees you come in, she revs up and zooms in on you, shrieking, “How can I help you have a fun-filled shopping experience?” They had her in a TV ad once, racing through the aisles and burbling, “I love people! I love people! I just love people!” Having been stalked by irony all my life, I know an omen when I see one. If there’s the slightest chance of someone being run over by a people-loving disabled American, it’s a dead cert to be me.