Image via WikipediaThat being said, I don't want to disappoint, so I'm going to tell a story from grocery stores past, even though I think some of you might have heard this one already, but it's a classic.
I call it: I CAN'T READ YOUR FUCKING MIND, BITCH!
Cover of Wayne's World / Wayne's World 2::Wayne's World-style flash back hand motions::
Picture this: It's 8:55 pm, five minutes to close. It's been a long day. I'm tired. I'm cranky. And I have night crew to look forward to. I'm on register one, an express lane, but because I'm such a charitable, understanding person I've decided to take a customer who clearly has more than nine items (in fact she has practically a whole cart). She seemed alright, a stylish little hipster chic, probably someone I would get drunk with at a party in the Mission or something and then we'd run into each other a week later and have some kind of awkward, "Hey... don't I... know you from somewhere?" kind of conversation, even though we both clearly remember but we are too mutually cool to just admit it. That kind of thing. The point is, she was a peer. This is important. I expect certain people to treat me like shit. If you're obviously outside of my tax bracket; if you're a middle-aged man with perfectly manicured hands who'd rather keep your ear buds in than have a conversation, or a woman with a Pomeranian in a Louie Vuitton pet carrier (yes, they certainly do have them, it's sick) on your fucking Blackberry, I get it. I know the score. I'm "The Help", and I expect to be treated like the maid from Gone With the Wind. But if you're just another twenty-something fuck up like me, I anticipate a certain level of camaraderie.
Apparently this was too much to ask.
So, I'm bagging said hipster chic's groceries (this should have been a warning sign; if she truly viewed me as an equal, then she would have been bagging), easily three bag's worth of groceries, and that's if I make all three bags super fucking heavy. But as I'm bagging the third one up, what does this bitch say to me?
(Hold on... I need to take a deep breath and count to ten before I commit these words to electronic paper... )
She says, while curling her stupid hipster lips at me: "You know, I only have two arms..."
...So subtle, yet so perfectly insulting. If it hadn't made me so furious, I would have complimented her on her craftsmanship. I only have two arms, bravo, bitch! Let's see those Louie Vuitton bitches top that one! What a masterful jibe, ya got me!
I remember being in sort of a state of shock for a couple of seconds, and then immediately falling into a silent rage. Here is a sampling of some of the thoughts that were going through my head: if you knew you're walking, then WHY did you buy what is clearly too much for you to carry, and then expect me to perform some kind of miracle of physics? There's a fucking parking lot! How the hell am I supposed to know you're carrying this shit home? You could be driving, or biking, or scooting, you stupid, Decemberists-listening (this was four years ago), Pabst-drinking, Timbuktu-sporting, art-school-attending cunt!"
...I obviously didn't outwardly express any of these sentiments, although to this day I wish I had. Instead, I just dumped everything out of the third bag, piled it awkwardly on top of the other two (making them almost completely impossible to move), and told the bitch to have a good night. I never saw her again. I would ask my audience to look out for a stupid hipster bitch with a dumb expression on her face, but really that doesn't narrow down shit, so I guess there's nothing to be done. I can only hope she'll discover this one day and realize what a perfect bitch she was. But probably not. they never do.
Image via WikipediaOk. Updated. Happy, bitches?
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