Self-serve checkouts, I fucking hate them.
They make me murderous because 9 times out of 10 I get “Unexpected item in the bagging area”. What exactly is so unexpected? Did you think I plonked a unicorn on the weight tray? Whoa! Wasn’t expecting that!! It’s going to be a fucking grocery item of some description isn’t it?
It’s not my fault that my bulk pack of toilet paper wouldn’t balance properly, or that my potato rolled to the side when I set it down. No. Now I have to stand there flapping my arms around like a fucking idiot waiting for the lady in the vest to come and type an essay into the screen so I can continue. And those power trippers in the vests like to make you feel like a total fucking failure while they do it too. They get off on it. They stick their magic code into the screen and start banging away while they give you a half-smile that says “I am mighty and powerful and you are fucking stupid”. I’ve even had some of them give me an extra look mid-essay and comment on the big bag of nappies “Oh you’ve got kids? That’s fabulous.” When really they are like “Are you going to pay for those?”.
Because everyone with a pram is a fucking blue collar criminal.
I would go through the regular checkouts, but there are a few problems with this.
- The checkout chick is a dying breed. I know. I used to be one. And I was very fucking good at my job too. Despite getting paid $4.65 per hour in 1992 I paid very close attention to that training video and remembered that you didn’t put the eggs on the bottom or the Ratsack with the milk or seventeen cans in one bag. It’s not bloody rocket science. But these new GenY checkout chicks don’t seem to fucking get it. They will throw your olive tub in the bag so the lid pops off and leaks all over your magazine. You’ll get the 5 kilo bag of dog food on top of your bread and the sharp package of cereal crammed in with too many other things meaning it will split and spill all over the ground as soon as you pick it up. Don’t think about bringing your own bags either because they’ll huff and fucking puff at the extra work that creates. They won’t even smile when they ask if you have flybuys. Where is the service?
2. I don’t like small talk. And I am usually wrestling my kids away from the Chupa Chup display so I simply don’t have the strength for idle chit chat.
3. Ethel is usually in front of me taking her sweet fucking time unpacking the groceries onto the conveyor belt and I get my crazy face on.
4. If you’ve ever played “Queue Jump Roulette” to find the shortest way out, you’ll be wanting to smack someone because you always fucking lose. Always.
So, I stick to the self-serve and it’s driving me batshit crazy. Can’t it just let my potato through give or take a couple of grams? Why does a machine have to make me this angry?
Coles need to concentrate on the real issues here, like the guy putting his giant bag of pomegranates through as the 99.c cut watermelon, or the woman trying the old “Lady Finger bananas as regular bananas” trick or the tight arses picking the truss tomatoes off the fucking truss. Are you listening Coles??!! These are the everyday thieves ripping off your fruit and veg department and they are LAUGHING IN YOUR FACE.
I just wanted some toilet paper and potatoes.
Fuck You Coles. Fuck your unexpected items and Fuck your vest lady power tripping bitches too.
Fuck You Bra Shopping
There is a special place in hell for you. You are worse than unexpected items in the bagging area and Himalayan black fart salt and slow magnetic travelators rolled into one. If someone said I would never have to go bra shopping again if I ate 50 plates of already picked-up sushi off Ethel’s naked body while someone jammed Himalayan black fart salt into every orifice of my body I would do it.
I have huge hooters which is not my fault, it’s a family inheritance. Instead of cash, I get massive tits. They are even more enormous after feeding two womb raiders which is just a slap in the fucking face because most people find theirs shrink. The unfortunate upsize could be because I’m now a bit fat, but whatever the reason they are now super huge and hard to house. I need new bras and the mission to find them is making me want to scream.
Bras come in two categories. Small and sexy or big and veryfuckinguglywithmassivestraps. Very seldom can you get one that will fit massive hooters and not look like a yurt with a few hooks at the back. And if you do manage to find one they will be about $100 each.
You can spend three or four days trying on everything in the shop and get absolutely fucking nowhere, all the while being forced to face yourself in those awful three way mirrors that will make even the skinniest person look obeast. It’s a one-way ticket to counselling town and if you make it out alive, you’ll still be broke.
I’d like to squeeze whoever invented bra shopping between my massive knockers and suffocate you.