Once upon a time it was simple fact that getting past the checkout operator with any ‘contraband’ was nigh on impossible. At the whiff of there being a tube of glue in a minor’s basket, Valerie would wave to Shirley, the Supervisor, and the secret service would arrive carrying an orange jumpsuit for the offender. Similar treatment was afforded to anyone under eighteen attempting to purchase anything serrated.
Then there was the relentless risk that a fourteen-year-old shopper might get past the till with a certificate 15 DVD, and manage to get a wholly inappropriate flash of a naked crotch and the odd mention of “fuck”. Vigilance at the checkout prevailed, irrespective of the fact that the teenager’s online viewing gave him a whole lot more than sight of a cunt, and in all likelihood there were even-odds that he'd already had his first taste of a cunt first hand! Finally, there was the chance that without checkout scrutiny at the highest level, someone under 18 might sneak past with something containing alcohol in greater concentration than found in Maynard’s Wine Gums.
All this has changed now. The threat to civilisation no longer comes from Alcohol, and the era of the alcopop-downing teenager is long gone. This became clear to me today, as I was served proof during a stop at ASDA. Society is under such threat that the focus of all attention at the checkouts is now:
carrier bags !
I no longer have to provide details of my day and my well-being to a nosy cunt who prods inanely before doing his or her job. Nor do I have to provide confirmation that I am not a quadriplegic, via the recently downgraded checkout vetting and interrogation that in all cases included by way of introduction - “Are you okay with your packing?” Instead, the attention has been diverted to the existence or not of the means to take the fucking shopping from the premises.
Yes, reader, the obsession in today’s society is cunting carrier bags. Have I got them, do I need any more, what sort might I want, how much might they cost. But worse than that, the fucking machines in the self-service area of ASDA, if today’s evidence is anything to go by, are more fucking demanding than the humans.
I had five items, one of which was a box containing cans of lager. I kicked off proceedings by scanning the box, and setting it down in the bagging area to the left. I had to confirm I had a bag of my own, as I’d no intention of buying a bag. (The question was of course pointless anyway, because the shitty bags would hardly manage a fucking crate of lager.) I tapped the screen to say ‘No’ to wanting a bag, and this meant a screen message stating operator assistance was required to "verify". What the cunting fuck! I waited in the umbra of a flashing red light while a uniformed ‘assistant’ worked her way over to assist. The assistance was NOT to check I was an appropriate purchaser of alcohol, but to make sure I’d not fucked up the whole bag bollocks. She swiped and tapped, and then muttered that I would have to scan it again.
I scanned the cunting lager and set it down, and then proceeded to scan the other four items (none of which fell into the categories of glue, porn, serrated equipment, full fat milk, peanuts or firearms) fully expecting to make payment without interruption. However, once more I was unable to do anything without the further intervention of an ASDA employee.
After tapping the screen and swiping her card, I was free to move on and exit the store – free to sell cigarettes to minors and offer glue as smelling salts, scatter peanuts at those susceptible to anaphylactic shock, and generally stab anything that moves with either a steak knife or a wallpaper scraper. I could also, of course, offer up to 20 kids some Carlsberg in a can.
Still, none of that really matters. The main thing is that the bag policy at ASDA was preserved, and the one assistant in the self-service area [that being the area where it is actually impossible to serve yourself because intervention is needed at least once for every customer] was able to feel useful. I was not alone in helping her feel needed, as every cunt in the vicinity was silently screaming at the ludicrous machines, the delay, and the needless inconvenience. Meanwhile, she was looking harassed, harried, and hopeless; yet strangely, she was only mildly more animated than the machine. The main distinction between the two (no decision being possible in terms as helpfulness, as both were useless) was that the employee grunted seven syllableS at me.
"You'll have to scan it again."
The only saving grace in this experience was that these machines don’t fucking talk.
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