Down the Retail Rabbit Hole

 Down the Retail Rabbit Hole

A family-shopping satire

We packed up the children, the coupons, the car,
And ventured to shop—not especially far.
We entered for trousers, some socks, and a shirt;
We left with a headache, a leaflet, and hurt.

The sign said, “WELCOME!” in corporate cheer,
Then twelve smaller notices made nothing quite clear.
“For comfort and safety, please follow Rule Eight”—
But Rules One through Seven were “pending updates.”

We asked one young clerk, who consulted a screen;
The screen asked a chatbot what “family” might mean.
The chatbot said, “Thank you—your concern has been logged,”
Then froze with a smile while the whole system bogged.

The app needed passwords with symbols and flair,
A fingerprint, PIN, and a sample of hair.
It welcomed us warmly, then crashed at the till:
“For faster assistance, please reinstall.”

We queued by a doorway beneath a red light,
Where arrows pointed left while the floor pointed right.
A manager arrived with a binder of lore:
“The policy’s simple—except in this store.”

The children grew hungry; Dad studied the map;
Mom guarded the cart from a clearance-rack trap.
Each sensible question produced, by design,
A survey, a QR code, and “Terms” to decline.

“May families shop here?” we asked with restraint.
“We welcome all shoppers,” came back the complaint.
“But where should we go?” “That depends,” they replied,
“On which temporary sign has most recently dried.”

So downward we tumbled through jargon and spin,
Where nobody knows where the rules end or begin.
The rabbit wore khakis, a badge, and a tie,
And promised, “Your comfort is our highest priority.”

At last we escaped with one sock and a hat,
Three digital coupons, no clue where they’re at.
The receipt was six feet, the explanation thin—
And somehow, we’d signed up to shop there again.

So here’s to the household, still mostly intact,
Seeking plain common sense in a maze of fine fact.
If this is “progress,” then kindly take note:
The rabbit hole now has a loyalty code.

With daughters and sons in one family crew,
The fitting-room puzzle soon came into view.
Should Dad join the ladies while helping them dress?
“Consult Appendix Q,” said the clerk at the desk.

Mom needed one doorway, the boys needed more,
Dad stood like a bellhop outside every door.
One daughter cried, “Help!” while the youngest yelled, “When?”
And Dad checked the policy binder again.

“A family room, perhaps?” we politely proposed.
The clerk tapped a tablet; the tablet then froze.
“We had one last Tuesday, from ten until three,
But now it’s reserved for the store’s Wi-Fi tree.”

So husband and wife, with their boys and their girl,
Were routed through arrows that twisted and curled.
We came for new clothing; instead, we were schooled:
A family of six needs a flowchart—and rules.