Life as a Cashier Archives - Page 6 of 30 - I Hate Working In Retail

By

You know you work at a Grocery Store and hate it when

This is kind of like a you know you work at a grocery store and hate it when. . . type thing.  Please add to the list in the comments section below…

The List of Pet Peeves:

1) I find you irratating when you’re on your phone and I’m trying to talk to you and ask you questions. You’re a rude person.
2) I hate when people spin our little code bar that stands above our keyboard. It is not slot machine sir, you will not win but I might punch you in the face.
3) I hate it when you can’t believe that I’m carding you even though you’re this __ old. I do not care, it’s a law and I’m not breaking it for you.
4) I hate it when you give me a hard time about a price being ten cents off what the sign said on the shelf. Does it look like that’s my job? No I am a cashier, my name badge says so.
5) I hate it when I start bagging an order and they all of a sudden want paper bags, or they brought there own bags. Putting them at the beginning of the order or asking would’ve been nice.
6) I hate it when I get yelled at for forgetting to take the credits off for your bags. You get three cents a bag and only used two, wait I’ll give you six cents out of my damn pocket if it’ll make you stop crying about it.
7) I hate when I get through a whole order, the customer pays and then pulls out coupons that they forget. (Note: when you hear them go ‘Oh shoot’ as your back is turned to finish the order that means they forgot something and you might brace yourself for anger) because you then have to flash for a supervisor so they can put them in for you or tell them to go to the service desk. They think that’s taking time out of their valuable lives when really you could’ve just gone through three orders already if they didn’t hold you up.
8) I actually just hate reusable bags, I get that they are great for the enviroment but they are annoying to bag with and I believe the customer should bag their own order at that point.
9) I hate it when the customer needs to pay in ten million different ways.
10) I hate it when the customer comes through with a hundred dollar order and goes ‘shoot I only have 65 dollars.’ Guess you should’ve been keeping track of that now huh?
11) I hate it when a customer is in a hurry but they decide to go grocery shopping and then get pissed at you because of how busy it is. (Note: To those people who do that. How about you wait till after you get to wherever the hell it is you’re going to, to go shopping. Because I promise you the world hates you so much that it’ll be busy if you’re just popping in for one thing. It’s not like other people exist and need food.)
12) I hate it when people say something they think is clever but I’ve actually heard a million times. For instance: “Shoot I saved 10 cents, I can go far with that!” Ha ha. Pretty sure that’s been done before.
13) I hate it when people read my name tag and go. “OH like hopalong Cassidy.” Heard that a milllllion times (similar to number 12)
14) I hate it when people scan their own advantage cards. Whoa. This is my job, and THIS side of the register is mine, my bubble, get out.
15) I hateee it when people try to tell me how to do my job (when people give me the price of something that actually has to be weighed. . . that doesnt help.) or when they tell you that you scanned something in twice but you already caught it and voided it out. (There’s a line that goes right through it, it’s thin but visible. Just look.)
16) I hate it when people bring in their SCREAMING child and don’t do anything about it. Take them outside, tell them to shut up or just don’t bring them to a grocery store. I find it rude of you to wait in line with your screaming child and I can’t assit my customer because I can’t hear them.
17) I hate the fact that we have to tuck in our shirts. I have a bit of pudge, it doesn’t look so good with a tucked in shirt.
18) I hate that we can’t dye our hair because it’s unprofessional. I’m just a part time cashier and my hair should be the least of a customers problem, at least I’m not a bitch to them. In fact I’m the nicest and hardest worker in the store.
19) I hate it when I see a child eating an apple or banana that their parent gave to them. Those have to be weighed to be bought, so you basically are letting your child eat a stolen item in front of me and I’m pissed.
20) I hate it when people take forever to write out a check when you tell them that all they have to do is sign it and they’re going to get it right back.
21) I hate when people swipe they’re cards in a million times but the card doesn’t take and they get pissed, it’s because you’re going to fast and oh look at the screen it’s asking you to press a button. . . pay attention.
22) I hate it when people don’t use the dividers and I start scanning another persons order. Don’t fuckingggg get pissed at me because you don’t understand what these BRIGHT green little rectangular boxes are for. Oh and another tip. It’s called the Void button, *poof* the item vanished from your order. All better.
23) I hate it when people watch me press the subtotal button and they’re not finished with their order and freak out like the register is automatically going to think they’re done and pay for itself. Nope I need your cash or credit card to do that.
24) I hate when there are maybe five-six registers open and we’re starting to get lines and someone has the balls to ask me if we’re going to open another one anytime soon. We’re doing the best we can. We only have a certain amount of help during the day, there’s not a lot we can do and I’m sure you can wait. Why would you come to a grocery store and not expect there to be people?
25) I hate hate hateee when people ask me why I dont have a bagger. We literally have two baggers a day, express cashiers don’t get baggers and the two that are here have to go back and forth and bag for the 6 other registers that are open. Your arms aren’t broken, you’re not lazy. Bag your own damn groceries. The nerve of people.

 

Sourced from cassidydoris.blogspot.co.uk

Share the joy
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  

By

PART 3: 5 WAYS TO A QUICKER DEATH AT THE CHECKOUT

JUDGEMENT!

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

When I first sat down in my manager’s office almost 10 years ago, and explained to her why I should be hired and how I would make a valuable addition to her “team,” I calmly but emphatically explained, on top of being great with people, getting a sense for a person and understanding what they might need, that I was the most patient person I’d ever met, and all of these facts coalesced into me being a tremendous retail associate.

Fast forward all these years, and it’s all still true. I’m the best goddamn retail associate I know. The only difference? I just secretly hate these customers more and more than I used to.

And it is exactly this world weariness I have shared with you time and again, dear reader, the culmination of which you are about to enjoy and embark on a journey for which you will find no lack of gumption, conviction and verisimilitude!

I proudly present the final, triumphant piece to conclude the most epic trilogy of ranting satire every conceived! The pièce de résistance in my finest line of work yet! The Crown Jewel in my development as a comedic writer!

I give you… My masterpiece!

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Ladies and gentleman, I present to you, Public Enemy No. 1! Do not approach or confront this man as he is believed to be distracted, and extremely douchey!

The Crime: 1st Degree Criminal Phone Use

Nothing really says, “you’re just the help and you’re here to act as my personal slave while I treat you with a mild neglect as you ring through my items and bag them, because this call is clearly too important for me to just put on hold while you service me,” quite like someone who’s on the phone the entire time you’re attending to them. It’s about as demeaning as someone can get, short of telling you you’re unimportant, a failure at life, they make more money than you, you aren’t worth their time, and that you were adopted and your parents kept it from you, all while dealing with you in the absolute most minute capacity they possibly can muster.

News Flash, Asshole! This isn’t my only job! I make $40/hr doing commissioned paintings, FOR FUN, while earning a 4-figure a week salary at my primary place of employment!  Do you make that much? No? Then promptly, kindly, and very sincerely, go fuck yourself with that cell phone, you self-important, self-centered, magnanimous piece of shit! You judge me, because I work in retail, then you get The Haymaker. No exceptions!

In talking to those I work with, those who’ve been in similar positions in similar retail ventures, it’s unanimous straight across the board: people hate waiting on someone who’s on the phone. Unless there’s a kidnapper with your child reading you their ransom demands, the President himself, or a surgeon talking you through how to save someone’s life while you do so, then get off phone when you get into my line. Otherwise I’ll cram it down your throat myself.

The Sentence Is: Death by telephone. If there is one thing, one SINGLE thing, that I love in this world,  it is definitely Coca-Cola. However, a fairly close second would probably be “poetic irony.” Just think of it: every time someone comes through your line babbling into their cell phone, they’re automatically brought to a labyrinth rife with deadly traps and perilous dangers, blindfolded, and the only way they can get out is if you guide them, from the other end of the telephone. It’s almost TOO good! Will you talk them into a precipice? Send them into a pack of voracious aardvark? Let them tumble into a hallway of flamethrowers? Oh, siiigh…

Just try not to have too much fun!

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The Crime: Unlawful Use of Welfare

Let me preface this entire section by saying I am in no way, shape, or form trying to inject any sort of political beliefs of my own into this article by remarking on the welfare system. Personally, I do believe drug testing should be mandatory for anyone receiving benefits, but that’s as far as I’ll go. That being said, if you go into a store, chattin’ it up on your brand new iPhone, with a BMW keyring dangling from your keys, then pay for a $10 jar of organic honey with your EBT card and then buy a pack of cigarettes with a $20 bill? Well, I don’t wanna say, “I’d push you off a cliff,” but I most certainly wouldn’t be diving to save your ass if you suddenly lost your footing.

A typical denizen of the retail world. But don't worry! They're putting your tax dollars to good use!

Just like any good thing in this world, the welfare system, which is in place to help those in legitimate and desperate need, is taken advantage of by those who want to take a shortcut or two just to help ease the burden of earning their keep. Ya know, like the rest of us.

Are you kidding me?

Is there a lowlier type of human being than these ingrates? I work my ass off, earning an honest living, in a retail world and elsewhere by working for my family and myself, and haven’t accepted any sort of state aid for myself even though I’ve desperately needed it in the past, and this asshole is paying for his groceries on my dime while helping himself to cigarettes and other treasures in abundance? A state-of-the-art smart phone? Luxury cars? This asshole needs a good ol’ fashioned dose of electroshock therapy… For starters…

Enjoy that organic honey, asshole. I’m paying for it, afterall.

The Sentence Is: Death by impending starvation. People who stand above others and shit on them while they do don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt, and don’t deserve mercy while we’re sentencing them accordingly.

In this instance, everyone who abuses the system will be sentenced to watch those they abused live I opulence. All the everyday working folk who slave away at dead end jobs to feed their families and keep food on the table will be gifted the excess food these douchers would have gotten with their state aid, and they get to enjoy it while these welfare abusers watch in abysmal, emaciated agony.

Dark? Sure. Disturbing? Perhaps. Deserving? Absolutely! Try to remember: these people are living large and comfortably off of YOUR hard work and sacrifice. Some people are just plain assholes and should be treated as such. So, let’s do what we have to, play the part of morally superior, and wipe those assholes!

Did I force that one? Maybe, yeah. What can I say? I can be a hemorrhoid.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The Crime: Abiding Fictional Ransom Demands

The note looked something like this, I'd wager. Only I'm sure it was something I could take less seriously.

There are moments in life you just have to take a step back and stare in awe. Things you didn’t think could ever happen. Things that, by all rights, should never happen. No matter how hard you work, how hard you try, how wide you smile, it will never be enough for some people. You’ll offer any help you can, try and check their items out in the timeliest fashion possible, but it’s not enough. “This store’s always dirty,” or “There’s never enough registers open here,” or “I can never find what I want here,” or “I always spend way too much money here,” or some other comment that’s meant purely to dig at you. Hey, ya know what? DON’T SHOP HERE THEN, YOU MISERABLE, WASPY BITCH! Like, W-T-Fuck?! Should I donate one of my kidneys to you, just for good measure? See if you finally leave the store satisfied? TOO BAD! It’s MY kidney! I NEED IT! YOU CAN’T HAVE IT!

Seriously. Any time someone cops an attitude like this or throws out a barb like that, I just want to ask, “hey, where do you work? So I can come in there and ruin your day for you, too?” Because that’s ALL it is: they’re unhappy and want to make someone else feel badly, too. That’s it. These types of people weren’t hugged enough as children. Either that, or weren’t beaten hard enough by their parents. More likely a toss up between the two. Even though I’m pulling for the latter. In which case, I’m more than happy to pick up the slack.

Case in point: if you’re going to complain, at least let me take the time to fix it for you, otherwise keep it to yourself, or don’t come in at all, because I don’t care how busy you are, how late you are, how important you think your time is, if you’re just going to bitch for the sake of bitching, I’m going to stab you just for the sake of stabbing you.

Maybe. Try me and we’ll find out.

The Sentence Is: Death by preemptive eugenics. At first, I toyed with the idea of letting them continue on in their miserable existence, scraping by without an ounce of happiness, but I realized that meant they’d continue on making the rest of us miserable, and that’s what I’m here to fix! So, I determined we need to suss out this problem at the source. We need to nix these wasp-y little turds before they can grow into wasp-y shitheads. That’s right! I’m talking about eugenics! When they’re born we’ll put them into the Asshole-O-Meter15000 that I’m currently developing, and if they score anywhere between “Ignorant Douche” and “Hypocritical Twat,” it’s over the cliff they go!

What?! Don’t look at me all judgementally! It worked wonders for the ancient Greeks! And the Nazis!

Um… wow.

Ok, point taken.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The Crime: Failure to Enter the 21st Century

"Oh, the total? Yes, it's $8.56. And then, I'll just need you to sign it. Your full name, yes, Mr. and Mrs. Antiquated Asshole, thank you.

Really? A check? No one pays by check anymore, you prehistoric twat. Get with the times. All you’re doing is holding up the line with your goddamn check-writing nonsense, Mr. and Mrs. Flintstone. In fact, I’ll help you out with this one by giving you a checklist to get yourself up to speed, ok?

1. __ Go to your bank.

2. __Get a debit card.

3. __ Play in traffic.

If you skipped straight to number three and ignored the first two, I wouldn’t be upset with you.

Honest.

The Sentence Is: Death by dinosaur. In honor of their inability to emerge from the stone age, I thought it would appropriate to have them contend with a denizen of their own time that I’m sure they’re quite familiar with: Dreadnoughtus schrani! Let’s let these fools try and survive the 85-foot long, 130,000 pound behemoth!

A little piece of plastic doesn’t seem like such a burden now, does it?

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The Storytellers

For me, and in my opinion, which is the best there is, there’s just nothing worse than someone rambling or trailing off when all you asked is a simple question. I’m just here to bag your groceries, not be your therapist.

“Do you have your Reward’s card?”

“No, I left it out in the car with my mother and two brothers and three sisters and my little pomeranian, Rex, because it’s below 64° outside which means if I don’t leave the heat on then my mother’s bowels will–“

Ok! Ok! I got it! All I needed was a simple, “no.” It’s not a complicated thing. “Yes” or “no,” that’s all I needed, and you couldn’t even handle that. Big surprise.

What could I possibly say that a Belcher child hasn't said for me?

And for Zeus’ sake, keep it short and sweet, please. Please! It’s actually really nice to have a quick little chat sometimes, if it’s not insanely busy, about what you’re making for dinner, something interesting that happened to you, the game, the weather, whatever. But I don’t need to hear about how you’re now living with your mother whom you didn’t really know your entire life and how difficult it’s going to be on you because the rest of your family just wanted to put her in a home but you just couldn’t bear to do that even though she left you and your siblings when you were younger and blah-blah-fuckin’-blah, GET OUT OF MY FACE!!! I don’t need to hear your entire life’s story here, Tolkien! I’m not getting paid by the word! Now get your groceries and get the hell out! Now! And if you hold up my line any longer by standing there at the end of the register and continuing to talk to me while I’m trying to wait on the next customer, I’m going to roundhouse your ass. Chuck Norris style: no hesitation and extreme prejudice.

The Sentence Is: Death by firing squad. Yup. That’s it. These douche bags don’t deserve anything elaborate or even funny. Just shoot these motherfuckers and get it other with.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

And there you have it! One of the greatest writing accomplishments of my entire life, 10 years in the making! I hope you guys enjoyed reading it and following along as much as I enjoyed writing it! And if you laughed at it, loathed it or loved it, I’d love to hear about it, so make sure to leave me a comment saying so! And, best of all, make sure to let me know what other crimes I may have missed that should go punished!

Thank you so much

 

Sourced from totally-biased.com

Share the joy
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  

By

5 MORE WAYS TO ENSURE A QUICK DEATH AT THE CHECKOUTS

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…

Nahhh!

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

Share the joy
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •