Wally, the mascot, flies over the Eastern seaboard soaring above lands once settled by the Lenape and Chippewa. His yellow cardigan clings to his midsection, a testimony to random diet and infrequent exercise. His red crest stands out more like Superman’s shield than Hester Prynne’s shame.
Cars circle as Wally smiles and floats higher. Humans, seeking caffeine, rush into his nest seeking to quaff the magic liquid which will carry them into the morning. A dozen urns holding sustenance ranging from mild to colon-destroying vie for their attention.
Wawa is a crossroads for those rushing to their daily toil and those pacing themselves for another day of retirement. Elderly men stand under the NO LOITERING sign and bemoan the lack of respect for the law. Expectant customers navigate a bright-colored menu screen, and voila, a Meatball Shorti is delivered into the world, placed in a paper blanket, and given a name. “Six Forty-nine,” yells its midwife.
A novice author, seeking to scribe short tales, uses the setting of busy clerks and rushed commuters to create Murder in South Jersey, a tale of a Wawa clerk moonlighting as a dispatcher of sexual favors. Seems possible to anyone recognizing the other-worldly atmosphere inside.
Mitt Romney, Republican candidate for President in 2012, stages a photo opp in a Wawa, marveling on the freedom of choice which the graphic terminal provides. If only those lazy forty-seven percenters would get off their welfare-stealing backsides and be more like these hard-working electronic marvels. Wally yawns. He’s seen it all before. The Utah Mormon departs for his next sermon, likely a $1000 per plate dinner of kindred spirits.
Thousands of souls seeking the gastronomic welcome that Wally oversees, file in to enjoy the combination market and social mecca. Wally and his generous human cousins sponsor civic events, collect loose change for worthy causes, and provide a gathering place for calorie-starved descendants of the first settlers, as well as for those who came later to these shores from lands where sandwiches do not appear on command.
Cars circle as Wally smiles and floats higher. Humans, seeking caffeine, rush into his nest seeking to quaff the magic liquid which will carry them into the morning. A dozen urns holding sustenance ranging from mild to colon-destroying vie for their attention.
Wawa is a crossroads for those rushing to their daily toil and those pacing themselves for another day of retirement. Elderly men stand under the NO LOITERING sign and bemoan the lack of respect for the law. Expectant customers navigate a bright-colored menu screen, and voila, a Meatball Shorti is delivered into the world, placed in a paper blanket, and given a name. “Six Forty-nine,” yells its midwife.
A novice author, seeking to scribe short tales, uses the setting of busy clerks and rushed commuters to create Murder in South Jersey, a tale of a Wawa clerk moonlighting as a dispatcher of sexual favors. Seems possible to anyone recognizing the other-worldly atmosphere inside.
Mitt Romney, Republican candidate for President in 2012, stages a photo opp in a Wawa, marveling on the freedom of choice which the graphic terminal provides. If only those lazy forty-seven percenters would get off their welfare-stealing backsides and be more like these hard-working electronic marvels. Wally yawns. He’s seen it all before. The Utah Mormon departs for his next sermon, likely a $1000 per plate dinner of kindred spirits.
Thousands of souls seeking the gastronomic welcome that Wally oversees, file in to enjoy the combination market and social mecca. Wally and his generous human cousins sponsor civic events, collect loose change for worthy causes, and provide a gathering place for calorie-starved descendants of the first settlers, as well as for those who came later to these shores from lands where sandwiches do not appear on command.
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