Maybe it’s the Yankee in me, but I absolutely hate waiting in lines. See, I have this uncanny, superhuman, x-men-like ability to subconsciously locate and endure the absolute worst possible line in the history of checkout lines wherever I go. Someone please contact Guinness. It’s world record wait. Every. Single. Time.
Tip: if you ever happen across me standing in line someplace, even if you really wanna talk to me or get my autograph or something like that, don’t do it. I’ll mail you an autographed picture of my bare buttocks – whatever you want – just do yourself a favor: go stand in the next checkout line over. Even if its twenty senior citizens deep. Trust me.
Here’s a brief list of typical scenarios that I face on a regular basis:
Baseball Team: sextuple (seven) scoop hot fudge brownie boat with sprinkles, half-fat caramel chocolate-mocha frappe drizzle, every single nut known to the Dominican Republic, freeze-dried watermelon rind puree, cat liver, fucking onions, and whatever else you got, lady. After three bites, the kid doesn’t like it or throws it up all over the floor, or on my sweet tennis shoes, and it goes in the garbage. What a surprise…
Extreme Couponer: Suddenly surrounded by Cameramen emerging from behind counters and repelling from the ceiling by mountain climbing harnesses. Price check on every item strategically packed into four carts. Persistent, overly assertive TV-like drama and bickering with the underpaid juvenile checkout kid with a bone through his nose about the four pennies that should have been saved on twenty eight bags of egg-free noodles that will eventually be placed in a doomsday prepper bomb shelter in order to conduct a shelf life experiment. All I wanted to buy was this stupid Carrot for my Salad. And some cigarettes. And maybe a pack of gum (impulse buy).
Popcorn or Pretzels? Butter or Salt? Or both? Or neither? Frozen Coke or Regular Coke? Jumbo or Mini? Hot Dog or Pretzel? Snowcaps or Twizzlers? Eeny Meeny Miney Mo Catch a Tiger by His Toe, if he Hollars Shut the Fuck Up Already and Make a Decision, dummy.
Dude with a credit card buying a round of the most fantastically complicated shots known to man for every single douche bag in the entire Saloon except for me. Turns around frequently to test the effectiveness of my eardrums by yelling to someone standing on the other side of the bar, which happens to be located somewhere in Paris, France, in order to let the person know that they are having a fucking insanely crazy-fun time getting loaded and preventing me from ordering my very simple Coors Light in a bottle which the bar doesn’t stock because not that many people drink it. Credit Card decline in 3…2…1…
Eat a pile of it, putz…
The Fitting Room
Every changing stall filled with sophomore high school girls partaking in their daily after school fashion show. Yes, please, keep teasing me (not like that, Chris Hanson of Dateline) by making me think that you’re finally done trying on every single halter top on the clearance rack when stepping outside of the stall every ten minutes only to provocatively strut toward the congregation of groupies standing in front of the trapezoid mirror, all simultaneously shifting their half-A cup boobs in front of the people that they ironically find *creepy. I hope all your homecoming dates forget your tickets at their other girlfriends’ houses…
Oh, and a note aside: Next time I’m gonna wait in the parking lot for you little cornballs to pack into the minivan at the designated pickup spot, then drive by you with my car that I am allowed to legally operate with my driver’s license. All while fist pumping into the hot summer air. See you at the movies…
You know, I still have the right to bitch… \m/
– Happy Blogging…on your iPad…while standing in line someplace.
- My Right to Bitch Facts and Fallacies (thechowderhead.com)
- ChowderHead: A Formal Introduction (thechowderhead.com)
- That Awkward Middle School Dance (thechowderhead.com)