Wack Friday

I swear, every year it’s the same nightmare masquerading as an event. They call it “Black Friday,” but where I come from, it should be called Wack Friday—a festival of broken promises, broken carts, and broken patience. It’s that one day when the world collectively loses its mind over discounts that are supposed to be “once-in-a-lifetime” but really feel like an eternal loop of mediocrity and disappointment. And let me tell you, witnessing it is like trudging through a swamp—a sticky, chaotic mire of consumer greed, poor planning, and emotional exhaustion.

First, let’s talk about the build-up. Ads bombard every corner of your screen for weeks, flashing neon promises of the “deal of the century” on products that are, nine times out of ten, either outdated, defective, or already sold out. Social media posts and email alerts act like sirens calling you into the murky waters, luring you with the illusion of happiness at a bargain price. And you, my friend, wade into this swamp thinking, This year will be different. I’ll win. I’ll get that deal. Spoiler alert: no, you won’t.

Then comes the battlefield itself. Stores become arenas of chaos, with lines curling out of doors like venomous snakes, elbows flying, carts clanging, and tempers snapping faster than credit card swipes. People treat each other like enemies in a gladiatorial contest. There’s no camaraderie, no small talk, just a shared understanding that this is a swamp, and if you’re not careful, it will swallow you whole. Shoppers leap over discarded boxes as if they were logs in a treacherous bog, while employees—those poor, overworked souls—shuffle like zombies, scanning items that no longer exist or pretending not to hear the complaints echoing around them.

And oh, the deals! The so-called bargains are mostly a mirage, floating just out of reach. You think you’re getting the latest gadget for half the price, only to find it’s been replaced with a version from 2017. You expect a wardrobe refresh for fifty percent off, but the shelves are half-empty, the sizes gone, and the remaining clothing looks like it survived a hurricane. It’s a swamp because no matter how hard you paddle, you keep sinking deeper into disappointment. The water isn’t refreshing—it’s murky, it’s frustrating, and it smells faintly of regret.

Online shopping doesn’t save you, either. The digital swamp is no less dangerous. Pages crash. Carts vanish. “Item out of stock” pops up like some cruel joke at the exact moment you commit. And customer service? Don’t even get me started. Chatbots that barely understand human language, phone lines that lead you through infinite menus, and promises of “back in stock soon” that mean nothing. Every click, every scroll, every desperate attempt to claim a deal pulls you deeper into a bog where logic and civility drown.

I’ve seen people leave this swamp beaten, exhausted, and questioning life choices. Families argue over who “got the better deal,” friends glare at each other because someone snagged the last item on a list, and strangers curse at each other over parking spaces like we’re all characters in some grotesque, swampy opera of madness. And all for what? For the illusion of saving a few dollars on something you didn’t even need until the ads told you it would complete your life.

The worst part? Every year, we go back. We march back into this swamp willingly, armed with credit cards, reusable shopping bags, and a fragile optimism that maybe this time, just maybe, Wack Friday will live up to its hype. But it never does. It’s sticky, it’s messy, it’s infuriating, and it’s exhausting. It’s a swamp because it traps you, bogs you down, and leaves you questioning why you ever thought a discount could make you happy.

So here’s my rant, my cautionary tale: Wack Friday is a swamp. Step carefully, keep your hands on your wallet, and guard your sanity. The water is dark. The paths are treacherous. And no matter how fast you run or how clever your plan, you might just end up sinking into the chaos like the rest of us.