Costco is like a sociological terrarium for the human condition, a giant warehouse filled with 72-roll packs of toilet paper and existential despair. If you ever wanted to see humanity unravel over rotisserie chickens and $1.50 hot dog combos, Costco is your ticket. Because somewhere between the industrial shelving and the $8 gallon of salsa, decency stops being a human expectation and starts being a casualty of bulk purchasing.
You see it immediately in the parking lot. It’s not just crowded—it’s combative. These aren’t ordinary drivers; they’re territorial warlords. Nobody is giving an inch, because that’s one inch closer to the sacred double-wide parking spot near the entrance. Cars circle like vultures over a dying gazelle, and every blink of a turn signal is a gauntlet thrown. It’s not about parking anymore; it’s about dominance. You will witness retirees in Buick Enclaves revert to gladiatorial instincts.
Inside, the breakdown accelerates. The store itself is designed to disorient you: aisles that don’t lead anywhere logical, seasonal displays that create traffic jams. You’re supposed to feel lost because confused shoppers buy more. And in that haze, the rules of polite society dissolve. You’ll see adults abandoning half-filled carts in the middle of aisles like they’re escaping a burning building. The unspoken code of “Excuse me” is replaced by muttered curses and passive-aggressive glares as people jockey for position in front of the almond butter display.
Then there’s the free samples, Costco’s version of the Roman gladiator games. People will queue, elbows out, for a microwaved quarter of a frozen taquito as though it were the last scrap of sustenance in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Watch as a grown man swipes the last mini-cup of cheesecake from a child’s grasp, then pretends not to notice her tears. It’s the kind of thing that makes you wonder if morality is just a luxury we forgo when offered a free shrimp cocktail on a toothpick.
But nothing encapsulates the Costco collapse of decency more than the checkout line. It’s a Kafkaesque nightmare of carts piled high with 40-pound bags of dog food and tubs of pretzels the size of oil drums. The express lane doesn’t exist because nobody is buying fewer than 12 items. People eye each other’s carts, calculating whose load will take the longest, strategizing like they’re planning a military assault. And the moment someone’s card gets declined or a barcode won’t scan? The collective groan of the line echoes like a death knell.
It’s not all bad, of course. The $1.50 hot dog combo remains a beacon of hope, a tiny reminder that maybe, just maybe, capitalism still has a soul. But even here, there’s a tension. How long can something this pure exist in a place that turns us into snarling, territorial animals?
Costco is a paradox. It’s where you go to save money, but it costs you a piece of your humanity. You leave with a trunk full of bulk snacks and a nagging sense that maybe Hobbes was right: life is nasty, brutish, and short—especially in aisle seven.