Friday, November 26, 2004

Check This Out

The market nearest Evans World Headquarters recently installed a self-checkout station, presumably to make the process of purchasing adult diapers or douche bags more anonymous for those who choose not to discuss the proper application of such items with their fellow shoppers. The concept of the station is remarkably simple – you scan your items, you bag them, you pay and you leave.

I needed four items: kitchen garbage bags, bananas, chips and dip. I gathered my goods and schlepped my basket to the self-checkout station. After a thorough once-over of the unit, I felt sufficiently familiar with it and pushed the button that said “Begin Checkout.” A very pleasant electronic female voice squirted out of the machine.

“Please scan your first item,” she said.

I grabbed the garbage bags from the basket, spun the box around four or five times until I located the little bar code, and then let it hover over the airspace of the scanner. I swiped it back and forth across the scanner a few times, waiting for the beep.

“Please scan your first item,” she said again.

“I’m trying!” I said, marginally panicked.

After another pass or two over the scanner, I finally heard the beep.

“Four dollars and ninety-nine cents,” she said. “Please scan your next item.”

I put the trash bags into a plastic grocery bag, then grabbed the Ruffles from my shopping basket and ran it across the scanner. Once. Twice, Three times. Four times. No beep.

“Please scan your next item,” she said.

“Shut up, bitch. I’m trying,” I said.

Growing increasingly agitated and feeling as though my dreams of a career in supermarket checking were atrophying in front of me, I continued trying to scan then chips. Still no beep.

“Please scan your next item,” she said.

“I heard you!” I said. “Zip it!”

I put the chips down, hoping that perhaps there was a problem with the bar code instead of the more likely problem: user error. I grabbed the dip and tried scanning it, but the same dismal failure ensued. I scanned and scanned and scanned, and nothing happened. At this point, my blood was boiling. A line of Thanksgiving shoppers was forming behind me, waiting to be similarly embarrassed by this stupid fucking machine of death.

“Please scan your next item,” she said again.

“OK, you chatty hag,” I said, throwing the dip back into the basket. “Here comes my next item right now.”

With that I unbuttoned my jeans, pulled them down to my ankles and put my bare ass right on the scanner. I shook it back and forth to make sure the evil woman inside the machine got a good look at my caboose.

“Here!” I said, riding the scanner and screaming at the top of my lungs. “Here’s the next item! Right here! Is it on sale? Huh? Huh? Huh?”

Beep.

“One dollar and forty-nine cents,” she said. “Please scan your next item.”

4 Comments:

At 11:01 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

The last douchebag I had contact with, I divorced 9 years ago.
~Moxie

 
At 11:02 AM, Blogger Fiber said...

Man, you gotta love how they hyperinflate the prices right around the holidays, right??

 
At 11:36 AM, Blogger Lola said...

Kick ass! I've always wanted to drop trou in the grocery store. Damn, someone beat me to it. And it sounds like everyone else had a little something extra to be thankful for.

 
At 2:07 PM, Blogger honestyrain said...

awww, you couldn't sell your stinky butt on ebay for more than a buck forty nine. poor you. that's so sad. maybe fewer chips and dips? just thinking out loud....

 

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