So this happened today….. Honest, it did.

I only went to Walmart to pick up some meds and maybe a couple boxes of Oreos. Simple mission. In and out. You know the move: park near the pharmacy entrance, avoid eye contact with anyone dragging a screaming toddler or carrying a bulk box of Hot Pockets, keep it efficient. But you know how Walmart is — once you’re in, the universe adjusts its frequency.

I wasn’t planning on having a conversation about my wardrobe choices in the middle of the cookie aisle — but, you know, life’s got jokes.

First stop: the pharmacy. No line. Quick and easy. Feels like I’m winning.

I’m wearing dark jeans, a button-down shirt, sweater vest, and a tie. Nothing dramatic. Just a man trying to live his adult life in peace and polyester blend.

I stroll out of the pharmacy area and head toward the grocery section. I take the aisle between the clothes and the food, scanning for anything I might’ve forgotten. This is the Walmart Shuffle — you never walk in needing paper towels, but somehow you’re debating between four brands by aisle six.

But as soon as I turn into the cookie aisle, something hits me. A scent. No — an event. It’s sharp, tangy, thick. It grabs the back of your throat like a hot comb dipped in citrus and bad decisions. My sinuses tighten. My pupils dilate. My brain checks in with my nose and goes:

Yup. That’s weed.  And not just any weed. That’s back-alley, punch-you-in-the-chest, makes-you-think-the-mop-is-judging-you weed.

And there they are — three dudes in full warm-up suits, standing shoulder to shoulder like a track team that forgot what sport they play. A human wall of THC. They’re swaying slightly in unison, eyes glazed like Krispy Kremes under heat lamps. These men are not shopping. These men are vibing. They are deep in communion with the Oreo section. They are marinating in a cloud so thick you could bottle it and call it “Eau de Couchlock.”

I attempt to maneuver past them, but this isn’t your typical “pardon me” moment. This is a herbal blockade. And as I try to slide by, one of them slowly turns his head — owl-style — and locks eyes with me. There’s a long pause as he takes me in. His gaze moves from my shoes to my tie like he’s trying to figure out if I’m a substitute teacher or a narc.

Then, with all the conviction of a man trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube underwater, he asks:

“Why the f*** are you all dressed up?”

Mind you, this is Walmart. On a weekday. Mid-afternoon. The only person more dressed than me might be the greeter still rocking a holiday vest from 2003.

I pause, one hand still halfway to a bag of Mother’s Animal Cookies, and just let instinct take over.

“Nah, dude,” I say, deadpan. “I’m not really here. You’re just really, really baked.”

He blinks. His mouth drops open slightly. And then — crack! — a slow, crooked grin blooms across his face like he just witnessed a sunrise made of nacho cheese and conspiracy theories.

“Oh yeah,” he nods. “That’s true.”

And just like that, he turns and walks away — mission complete, spiritual question answered. Reality: confirmed optional.

The other two say nothing. They’re still studying the Oreo shelf like it’s blinking in Morse code. I sidestep the fog they left behind, grab my cookies, and roll out like I just survived a scene from a Cheech & Chong reboot.

Some people go to Walmart for necessities.

Me? I go for plot twists.