Funny · Life

Self Checkouts Were Made to Have You Committed

Photo By Spencer Tirey“Please wait for assistance.”

I rolled my tired, thirty-one year old eyes and throw down the bottle of DayQuil while I wait for little Miss Self-Checkout Monitor to come to my rescue. She doesn’t speak a word to me. She is actually annoyed that she has to leave her post to come type her password into the machine. The fact that someone under 21 has to give me permission to buy a medicine that isn’t going to do shit for me just pisses me right off.

“Unexpected item in bagging area.”

I remove the DayQuil from the bag.

“Please place item in bagging area.”

I put it back in the bag.

“Unexpected item in bagging area.”

I remove the DayQuil from the bag.

“Please place item in bagging area.”

I put it back in the bag.

“Please wait for assistance.”

I don’t need assistance, you technical piece of garbage! I throw the DayQuil down again, this time exhaling as loudly as I can so that Miss Self-Checkout Monitor hears me. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t hear me because she’s too busy talking to Mister Buggy Wrangler.

I stare her down for a good minute and 26 seconds before she notices the angry expression on my face. I’m pretty sure she knew that if she didn’t come help me, my fist was going to help itself straight to her throat.

She puts her password in again, and resets something and tells me I have to start all over.

I stand there staring at the machine. I gather my thoughts. I say a prayer. I hear silence. A tumbleweed rolls down the aisle. Christmas comes and Christmas goes. I hear Eye of the Tiger over the intercom. I scanned the DayQuil and, moving slower than a geriatric slug, put it in the bag. Success!

“Unexpected item in bagging area.”

I remove it from the bag. I walk my jolly ass over to Miss Self-Checkout Monitor and slam it on the counter in front of her.

“I need to see a manager.”

“Um okay. But why?”

“Because if I have to work this hard to buy my own shit, I need a paycheck!”


Why do I do this to myself every time I step foot into Walmart? I’m not avoiding the cashiers. Why in God’s name do I think I can do this job faster than the trained store employee over there? Every time I think to myself, it’s only x-number of items… why wait in line? The express self-checkout is right there… lulling me into a false sense of security with its empty promises of quickness and proper bagging techniques. Like a mafia wife, I’m not able to free myself from it’s golden glow of power.

And trying to feed crumpled up one dollar bills into the machine that a waitress handed you an hour earlier from the front pocket of her apron after apologizing to you for the money looking that way because she just waited on a stripper… is almost as frustrating as using the machine in the first place.

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