I woke up with a horrible cold this morning. My head was a cinder block. All day I resisted taking medicine, because NyQuil is the only thing that works for me and I didn't want it to put me out in the middle of the afternoon. Finally at around 9, I decided to give in. I went to the medicine cabinet and lo, there was no NyQuil to be found! I never think to replace it when it runs out, because by then I'm usually healthy. This is known as "poor planning", or more colloquially as "being fucking retarded".
Since I was sick, I was dressed in my most comfortable, least presentable clothes - the purple t-shirt with the stretched out neck that shows a tuft of classy chest hair and the black gym shorts with white paint stains. The composition of "sick clothes" can be seen in this handy chart:
Despite my appearance, I felt like shit and I was just NOT going to change to run to CVS for NyQuil. I thought to myself, "I know exactly what I'm getting, I'll go to the self-checkout lane, and I'll be gone in 2 minutes flat before anyone can see me, point and laugh."
Yeah, not so much.
I approached the self-checkout machine and scanned the NyQuil. The wrong price came up, so I didn't want to complete the transaction. The machine, in its best HAL 9000 voice (if HAL 9000 were a screeching undersexed housewife), yelled "PLEASE PUT YOUR SCANNED ITEM IN THE BAG! PLEASE PUT YOUR SCANNED ITEM IN THE BAG!" The barked orders were accompanied by a beeping of such fanfare and volume that for a second I thought I had hit three cherries on the Double Diamond machine. The manager had to come over from the register where she had seven patrons in line to reset the self-checkout machine. So far my plan to go unnoticed was working brilliantly.
Undaunted, I made a second attempt to scan the NyQuil. The machine, clearly having lost patience with me, immediately started yelling again. "AGE RESTRICTED PURCHASE! AGE RESTRICTED PURCHASE! ASSISTANCE IS ON THE WAY! DO YOU SERIOUSLY GO OUT IN PUBLIC LIKE THAT? DON'T YOU HAVE ANY PRIDE?"* The sirens whipped up their frenzy again, and above the patrons in line a collective thought bubble formed that said, "Why can't that homeless guy work the goddamn self-checkout? I just came in for smokes and Lost starts in ten minutes!" The poor manager had to come over again and confirm my age. Apparently, you can't buy cold medicine in California unless you're 18 because so many cold medicines are ingredients in crystal meth, and because crystal meth is California's third-largest export after porn and malaise. I find this law highly illogical, as I would guess that 97.5% of crystal meth makers are 18 or older. Besides, if someone under 18 is a drug kingpin, I don't want to smother the entrepreneurial instinct in such an industrious young person. That's the kind of thing America was built on.
After the manager took my hair for DNA analysis and determined that I was at least 18, I was allowed to pay for my medicine and slink out the door just ahead of the glares from the rabble still waiting in the human line. On my way to the parking lot, I passed a guy begging for change outside the store. He took my hand in his and slipped me fifty-six cents. I kept it.
* I may or may not be paraphrasing the self-checkout machine's remarks
16 metawords:
HA. That's great. Hope you feel better. Except you lost me at the graphh. Would you mind redoing it as a pie chart so it's easier to understand?
I remember the good old days, when grandpa would send me out to the store with a nickel to bring him home some meth ingredients. Those were simpler times, for sure.
Damn kids today have to ruin everything.
/fistshake
I always feel like dragging a baby over those self-scanners to see what happens, like in the opening sequence of the Simpsons.
What kinda price would a machine charge for a baby? Prolly not very much.
I usually don't care about the clothes, right down to my lime green crocs clashing with whatever I'm wearing. It's putting a bra on that I do for my community. Last night I didn't even bother to do that when I ran out for cigarettes. Cause I'm a lady like that.
My heart broke for you when your medicine cabinet was bare. That sinking feeling you get when you realize you have to go out, that it just has to get worse before it can feel better, is awful.
I'm happy for me, though, that your experience was so egregious it was entertaining.
I find that any plan based around a desire to not have people point and laugh at me usually ends up in a vast amount of pointing at laughing. I hope you've learned your lesson.
Yeah. Your graph needs an arrow at the very least.
I say fie to all you graph-haters! That's a perfectly legitimate graph. Where's Mathdude when you need him?
I hope you feel better! I sometimes had the self-checkout. I would have been pissed to be behind you!
Hope you feel better today. To help you even further on your way to recovery I can reveal that I discovered your blog recently and liked it so much that 1) I actually bothered to read your older entries and 2) you're on my blog list now. I've got four readers including myself (I'm only new), but never mind.
CC
PS. May I borrow your word "postette" please? I'll link to you.
This is known as "poor planning", or more colloquially as "being fucking retarded".
Fix it or die.
And you know exactly what I'm talking about.
Why can't that homeless guy work the goddamn self-checkout?
Oh lord, I think I may have peed myself a little
Oh sure, you suffered some indignities, but doesn't being in a NyQuil coma for 16 hours worth it?
Damn you, Beckeye. I should have titled this entry Double Indignity, not Double Ignominy.
I'm laughing in a corporate setting. You're gonna get me in trouble! Thanks for visiting me, and congrats! You've been added to my Reader!
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