Likely Normal

Welcome to the Walmart of the tomorrow, where shopping has been optimized into a surreal, frictionless nightmare of convenience. Gone are the days of wandering aisles like a confused peasant—now, every inch of this retail utopia has been engineered to drain your wallet while removing the last shreds of human spontaneity.

First, you’re greeted by your self-driving shopping cart, a sleek, AI-powered chariot that follows you with the quiet judgment of a butler who knows you’re about to buy three pints of ice cream at 10 AM. It beeps impatiently if you linger too long in the snack aisle, nudges you toward “suggested purchases” (because of course you need artisanal kale chips), and—if you dare to browse offline—locks up like a rebellious Roomba until you scan something.

The employees, now Segway-mounted retail ninjas, glide through the store with the grace of mall cops who’ve traded dignity for efficiency. They don’t walk—walking is archaic. Instead, they hover near you like helpful ghosts, ready to assist… or possibly run you over if you block the organic quinoa display. “Excuse me, sir,” one intones robotically as they zip past, “you have seven seconds to decide between almond or oat milk before your cart auto-selects for you.”

Then there are the augmented reality glasses, which turn shopping into a relentless barrage of unsolicited advice. Look at a product, and instantly—BAM!—your vision floods with pop-ups: “87% of people who bought this mayo also bought regret! 3.2 stars—Karen says it ‘tastes like disappointment.’ Click here for a 50¢ coupon that expires in 12 minutes.” The glasses even highlight trending items in glowing neon, ensuring you’ll never again experience the joy of choosing something just because you wanted it.

And yet, despite all this cutting-edge tech, the store is eerily silent. No chatter, no kids begging for candy, no confused debates over which pasta sauce is best. Just rows of zombified shoppers, shuffling through the aisles with glazed expressions, their AR glasses flashing, their carts herding them toward checkout like sheep to the slaughter. Occasionally, someone mutters, “Alexa, add to list,” but otherwise, the only sounds are the hum of Segway wheels and the soft, despairing whir of a humanity that forgot how to just pick a cereal.

As you leave, a drone swoops down to scan your receipt (because paper is for barbarians), and your cart chirps, “Thank you for your compliance. Please rate your shopping experience—5 stars!”

Welcome to the future.