Death at the Checkout, Part III

Justin sets aside more of his valuable time to do something he always loves to do: make even more people feel badly about themselves

I wish I didn’t have to keep doing it.

I wish people would just get the hint.

I wish a lot of things.

Mostly, I just wish death upon all the people around me who aren’t as smart as I am. And there’s a lot of them, as we learned last time around! Bearing that in mind, because there’s so many ingrates that need to be brought down a peg or two, or even just euthanized or aborted, I’ve decided to have another go at this and leave you guys with more literary gold.

Oh, no, dear reader, don’t even think about thanking me! It’s simply my duty to provide you with such wonderment, such amazement, such awe. That’s right, here’s more nonsense for you guys to enjoy! Make sure you let me know what annoys you in the comments and make sure to give this piece a rating.


The Crime: 2nd Degree Aggravated Stalking

It's my given name.

Look. Let me make something abundantly clear to you. Ok? I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Let’s keep it that way. I’m just here to bag your shit, and I don’t really need any sort of personalized thanks from you. Or a gold star. Kay? Kay.

These assholes that make sure to read my name tag and say, “hey, thanks, Justin!”  after making constant, diligent, awkward-as-shit eye-contact, and taking hold of their bagged cat litter and Diet Coke make me want to punch a baby. No, literally. Like, strike a newborn infant.

What?! I’m just saying! Use my name when you don’t know me, and there’s a chance you’ll be getting something sharp in your jugular. That’s all!

The Sentence Is: Death by name tag. Imagine, if you will, being strapped down to a large, rotating target sign, your body held in place by uncomfortable leather straps, your arms and legs out to increase your surface area. And across from you is world card throwing champion Ricky Smith, Jr., armed with a bandolier of name tags. Except, the edges have all been honed to a razor’s edge. As you spin, you hear a timer counting down, a crowd chanting in unison to the numbers, getting closer to the start of the show!

Can you imagine all of that? If you can, then you’ve now you’ve got a general idea of what these assholes deserve…


The Crime: Failure to Produce Proper Materials

This could have been called, “The Hippy Asshole and the Scummy Bagglers.”

That would almost make for a good band name, wouldn’t it? Maybe a punk rock outfit or something… I mean… uh… where was I? Oh, yeah…

The ongoing and living motto for every one of these bags. No, really. I've heard them chanting it before.

Seriously? You had all of five minutes to  set those big, nasty, scummy, dog-hair-covered pieces of shit up on the belt, but instead you sat there and gawked at the Lardassians on the cover of every magazine talking about them losing 20 pounds but looking the same as they always do.

Let me spell it out for you: your shit’s half-bagged. I’m not rebagging it. Do it yourself, you pompous hippy prick. You had time to make sure I had the bags, and if it was that important, you should’ve been on top of it.

Just like me on being on top of your mom last night. Bitch.

The Sentence Is: Death by stoning. Or is that “bagging?” In either case, you know those huge things that come down in an automatic car wash? They spin and they’ve got those things that slap the car and scrub it? Well, picture the whole tunnel part of it being about half the size, and those spinning things have those heavy-ass canvas bags on them, and they just spin and beat the shit out of these pricks as they’re forced to walk through.

You’d be amazed at how often I hear, “I have my own bags!” in a condescending, wasp-y tone from these crotchety asshats. You’d think they’d learn to get their bags up front for us to do our jobs, but no. They constantly berate us for not using bags that they haven’t given to us. Right.

Let them learn the hard way.


The Crime: 2nd Degree Identity Theft – Abacus Impersonation

Look. I’m not sure how else to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. Ok?

You. Are. Not. A. Human. Adding. Machine.

You. Are. A. Moron.

Oh, you have to put a few things back? Sure, I'd love to do that for you! Right after I stab you in the face.

I swear to God, these people think they’re swimming in money, stockpiling every they can and creating a huge mound up over their carriage of groceries, just to find out they’ve only got a $20 bill and need to take almost everything off the order and put everything back. Really? You couldn’t double-check to make sure you had enough? You couldn’t play it conservative and not go overboard by buying four frozen pizzas, four packages of french fries, eight boxes of hot pockets, and a dozen sodas? Cuz now I have to put all of this back, something I shouldn’t have had to do in the first place. I mean, you needed all that shit? Maybe, since I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that it was your EBT card that doesn’t have enough on it, you shouldn’t be eating like a slob in the first place, and shouldn’t be buying junk food at my expense. Since, ya know, I’m working and paying taxes to afford you these groceries.

Maybe try being a little bit more considerate in your future, Mr. Abacus? The same way I’ll be considerate of you and make sure you don’t suffer for too long once I start clubbing you with something heavy. Like an office chair. Or a Buick.

The Sentence Is: Death by giant abacus. No need to get fancy with this one. Just throw these bastards into something that looks like a giant Foosball table, with rails covered in giant, 5-foot wide balls going across at different heights, and the far side goal being their only way out. The material of the beads is the only thing I’m struggling with. We want to make sure we enjoy this, so something on the softer side will insure they’re jostled around enough for us to get our laughs in. Watching the pieces race back and forth, sending them flying, ass over teakettle, as they so very desperately try to reach that goal… the ringer? The goalie rail. He whizzes back forth so quickly that he’s a blur! Meaning yes, you guessed it, they’re never getting out!

Ahhh, bliss…


The Crime: The Correlation Between Bags and Teeth

Now, this is an odd one. It’s not something that I feel very many of my cohorts have ever picked up on. I may be wrong, but it’s vague and

$5 if you can guess whether his milk is getting bagged or not. Bonus if you can guess whether or not it's getting doubled, as well!

obscure. I’ve noticed, in my travels and research, that there is a direct relation between the number of bags someone needs and the number of teeth they have. Let me break it down for you: if someone walks up to your register in a skeezy, faded denim jacket, with scraggly-ass hair and enough teeth to barely count on two hands, then you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that they need their milk and other handled items, such as detergent, in a bag. It’s a given. It goes without saying. It’s a fact of life. These people have to compensate somehow!

It’s cool, though. I can’t really pass judgement. No, no, trust me. I know. You’re walking home and all the way up to the 3rd floor, so you need that milk in a bag. Even though it’s got a working handle. It’s cool. I get it. No, no, no, don’t even bother telling me! I’m all over it. You need everything doubled. Including these two rolls of paper towels? Of course you do! Silly me. How could I not know?

Maybe they’re just doing renovations on their cardboard home and need the extra materials… Which, I guess, would make ME the asshole…


The Sentence Is: Death by improvised hammer throw. This may end up being my most inspired sentence ever. Basically, they’re at the start of a long track, and have to try to outrun the bagged gallons of milk and water people are using in a hammer throw event. Hammer throw, as you know, is that Olympic event with the ball on a chain that people spin and toss, right? So, the bags  handles are the chain and the gallon of milk is the hammer.

Hey, I said it was inspired, not that it was elaborate. Try telling me it wouldn’t hurt like a bitch to get walloped in the back o’ the skull with a flying gallon of milk!

Ok then! Thought so!


The Crime: Improper Use of Simple Machine

The Self Scan Register. The World’s 8th Wonder.

When did the Self Scan suddenly require you to be Robert Langdon from The Da Vinci Code to have any sort of success in using them? I swear, every time someone uses one of these things, it’s like they’ve made first contact with the first sign of intelligent alien life and are struggling to decipher what the pale, almond-eyed being is trying to say to them.

You've almost got it... Almost... Just, try one more time?

“Please place item in the bagging area.” Seven simple, plainly spoken words that tell you everything you need to be doing. You scan an item, then set it down. Fucking rocket science. Or, at least, that’s what 75% of the people who use self scans would have you believe, as they stand idly, completely dumbfounded, holding a can of beans in each hand, shaking their head in disgust as they can’t seem to crack the code, the strange voice uttering the same simple phrase, “please place item in the bagging area,” over and over. They track you down and yell for help, “hey! This thing ain’t workin’! It’s like this every time I come over to these things. I don’t know why I use them!” they mutter in disgust. “You ever think maybe you’re the problem then, douche bag?” is what I always feel like asking as I grab the first item they scanned, calmly set it down into the bagging area, and marvel in complete surprise and amazement as they’re then able to continue! Like it’s a bona-fide miracle! The 2nd coming of Christ!

What would you give to be able to slap these bastards right across the face? Seriously.

This is, of course, not even taking into account the people who are just much too important to wait in line, like everyone else, so they hurry over to an empty self scan, ring in their alcohol, and then are disgusted to find that they have to wait for approval. I’d love to be able to hear their thoughts as they walk up to the register. Probably goes something like this:

“Oh, my god! There’s two people in this lane?! Jesus, I don’t have time for this… My husband is a doctor! I shouldn’t have to wait like everyone else! I’m going over here to these things. They can tell how old I am, right? There’s cameras or something in the scanner? Or maybe it just knows?  My husband is a doctor, after all… Shouldn’t have any problem scanning this alcohol through… Wait, what?! I have to wait?! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?! I’M GOING TO HANNAFORD’S NEXT TIME!”

More or less. Guarantee it.

The Sentence Is: Death by automated disassembly line. This is a little bit of a curveball, but I think you’re gonna like it!

You know how assembly lines have something move along a conveyor belt, and huge robotic arms come out and add more to whatever it is they’re building, piece-by-piece, all the way down to the end? Well, think of that, except in reverse! It’s really that simple! These assholes are strapped down to a belt in a big, scary industrial plant of some kind, and as they travel along the line, the huge robots and machines take them apart, piece-by-piece. They can’t handle using a simple automated a machine? We’ll see how they like being handled by a not-so-simple automated machine.

I know, I know. I’m a sick son of a bitch.

Good thing I don’t mean any of this


Sourced from totally-biased.com

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