Kicked Square-In-The-Nuts:Self-Service Checkout Lines

Recently Jonny has been kicked square-in-the-nuts by that horrible mutation of technology-gone-wrong known as "self-checkout". These horrible technological abominations are most common in grocery stores and Wal-Mart-style superstores, but I have also found these in my local Home Depot. I'm sure they exist elsewhere, but Jonny doesn't get out much. I'm not leaving the house to buy something that I can get handed to me on my doorstep (or better yet, just left on my doorstep so I don't have to answer the door) by that man in the funny brown shorts that drives the big brown truck. In my opinion, the greatest accomplishment of the Internet is that it allows me to live my life while interacting with as few stupid people as possible. But that's a topic for another day.

Jonny is a big fan of automation, but not if it means that computers and machines save work for SOMEONE ELSE while creating MORE work for ME. In other words, these fucking machines are NOT automation at all. Nothing is any more automated than it was in the customary retail check-out process, except perhaps the handling of cash and change by the machine, although tonight I fed a $20 into the machine and Skippy, Grand Master of the Self Checkout System, handed me my change. Anyway, these devices are not an advancement by technology, but instead clever trickery by some mischievous badger at the store to get me to perform THEIR labor and save THEIR money. FUCK THAT!!!

Seriously, when did it become MY FUCKING JOB to ring up my purchases and bag my own goddamn groceries? Last time I checked, I don't get a W-2 from any of the stores where I shop. I checked my receipt very carefully, and no where do I see an "Employee Discount" or a "DIY Discount" for doing their job for them. So basically they have replaced a teenager making $6.00 per hour with my old ass making $0.00 per hour.

There are times when these contraptions are useful. During dayparts when the stores are busy enough to have plenty of conventional (i.e. employee-operated) checkout lines open, these self-serve gizmos serve as four (or more) extra Express Lanes. If I just stopped at the store to grab a handful of items, I can usually get out of there quicker if I swallow my pride and do my own grunt work. Cool. I'm fine with that. I don't mind being my own bitch if it will allow me to embark on the rest of my life a little quicker rather than spend it basking in the fluorescent glow of some tilt-wall retail hellhole while taking in all of the latest headlines about what crazy shit Britney did this week or about Brad Pitt's bitch squatting out another squid. Jonny apologizes if his gossip is not up to date.

Unfortunately, that's not usually the case - at least not when I visit the store. The retailers seem enamored with the concept of FORCING me to use these evil machines by significantly reducing (or completely eliminating) the number of conventional checkout lines open during slower parts of their business day. I frequently hit the store during their slower hours to just pick up a few items. Sometimes it's picking up a few supplies to make Mrs. Jonny a nice adult beverage at the end of a long day or week. Sometimes it's just a bag of pet food, or a case of water, or something that the Jonny household is out of. Such was the case tonight - Kitty Jonny was out of food and I had a few minutes to kill before my Chinese take-out order was ready.

So I roll up to the front of the store carrying Kitty Jonny's dinner / breakfast / lunch and two bags of late night munchies for myself (damn those impulse purchases). It's a little after 9:00 on Friday night, and the local Kroger isn't a hotbed of consumer activity, but there were a fair number of folk doing their consumption business. There is ONE, exactly ONE FUCKING LINE open. By "Line" I mean the conventional type. That line is out of the question, as I survey three SUV-size carts full of rations tended by three SUV-size bitches waiting to be serviced. So I roll over to the Self-Serve area and hope for the best. Not so much.

Theoretically, I am the next in line. Unfortunately, every store that has these goddamn machines refuses to set up an actual "line" or any sort of queuing mechanism for waiting patrons, so it seems like I invariably get fucked in the line selection/sequencing process. It's like a big public men's room with two entrances and lines at both doors for the same set of urinals - there is no good mechanism for determining who gets to piss next. Everyone tries to be the next guy to reach the open urinal without making eye contact with any of his fellow trough-goers. If I stand right in the middle, seeming to broadcast to the retail world "Hey, I get the next station that opens up", it never fails that some douchebag comes and stands on one side of me or the other, basically disallowing my assertion and claiming his half of the stations for himself in the name of Ferdinand and Isabella. "That Fuckin' Guy" is the reason why I don't carry a gun into the grocery store most of the time. Sooner or later I'm going to twist off on That Fuckin' Guy, and the outcome may not be deemed as a justified use of deadly force. So instead I usually just give him that "What the fuck?" look, including the requisite Italian-style hand gestures - he appears to understand my position, but he never seems to give up his claim.

So tonight is no different - my claim to the entire set of self-serve stations is not recognized by the United Nations or the European Union, so I end up moving to one side, where seemingly I am next in line for one of the two stations. Except that one of these stations is "down", and the women currently standing at that station are, in actuality, waiting for the NEXT station, which is the one station on this side that is not "down". I thought the whole point of replacing humans with machines is that the machines don't call in sick, don't have bad days, and generally don't fuck up the works. Not so much.

Anyway, the woman using the single remaining functioning station on my side of Gilligan's Island also has an SUV-size cart full of shit. Apparently she saw the long lines at the single fucking open conventional register and had the brilliant idea of trying to take her monstrous load through the self-serve line. Nice try, bitch. Leave the heavy lifting to the Professionals - they get $6.00/hour for a REASON. During what seemed like an eternity, I watched this dunce try to figure out how to get the machine to understand everything she wished to purchase while she paused periodically to scream at her two little bastard children that were tearing shit up over in the magazine section. Note to self - invest in Private Incarceration Firms - the prison business is only going to get better and better as this generation of shithead parents cranks out the next generation of double-shithead kids.

I thought I was finally going to twist off as I watched her try to scan a big frosted birthday-style sheet cake inside the typical grocery store plastic cake packing. The label was on top of the box, and she kept trying to figure out how to flip the cake over to scan it without ruining the cake inside the box. Dear God, PLEASE, KILL ME NOW!!! Finally, like the Vatican during the Holocaust, Skippy finally acknowledged the plight of this ignorant cunt and took his Telxon over and scanned the cake for her. Somewhere during this fiasco, Skippy told me that the "down" station was now "up" - I tried to use it, but it still wasn't working, so I told Skippy, and he copped an attitude like I was too stupid to use his precious system. I'm sorry Skippy, you'll have to forgive me - I didn't score very highly on the "Touch the big square on the screen" section of the SAT. At that point I began touching the "Start" button as quickly as I could while the machine beeped/screamed in protest. Skippy came over and tried it, because I guess he thought that HIM pressing "Start" was WAY better than me pushing it. Fuck you Skippy. You're about 10 IQ points away from being that "special" kid that pushes the carts out to the old ladies' cars. Oh wait, they phased out that job too.

Eventually the stupid whore hogging the single working station left, and the women in front of me scanned and paid for their wine, and then Jonny finally got to ring up his three items, pay for them, and go on his merry way. If my Chinese food is cold I'm gonna KICK SOME ASS! Or maybe I'll just microwave my food.

This post is already WAY too long and no one is going to read it, so I'm going to cut it off here and resume tomorrow with Part II. If anyone actually comments on this, I fully expect the comments to be "TL;DR" (too long, didn't read) and "Cliff's Notes please". Like you actually have something better to do. No, just like I have time to write this shit, you have time to read it!

Jonny out for now, bitches.