Before I became a regular at the supermarket, people always carded me. I don't mind being carded, I just expected the people at the register to have a basic understanding of math to be able to figure out my age. When I showed my ID to this one guy, he looked at it for a minute, looked at me suspiciously, and said, "Are you sure you're 21?" Gee, I don't know let me check my ID. It's on the card moron. He continued looking at the card, then looking at me suspiciously. "Let's see...I was born in 1980 and I'm 24, you were born in 1982 sooooooo that means you must be....are you 23?" Nice try. Let me give you the complicated mathimatical formula that will show you how old I am. First, take the year I was born from my ID, 1982. Then, take the year it is now, 2004. Then, subtract 1982 from 2004. It will look something like this.
It never fucking fails. A liquor run that should take three minutes ends up taking time enough for me to write a three-hundred page paper on the political and sociological significance of the dried ketchup on the ketchup squeeze bottle lid. The store is practically empty, yet as soon as I approach the register, dumbasses and retards flock to the only open register in the place. There's the moron with 75 types of catfood she THINKS are on sale, the drooling child who can't pick out ghost or pumpkin lights for her stupid halloween party, the decrepit old bitch who pays for a single stamp with a check (which she writes and re-writes incorrectly five times), the gaggle of puerile sorority sisters who can't decide if they want to rent "Legally Blonde 2" or the "Sex and the City" season one DVD collection, the 23 member Mexican family that doesn't understand a word the cashier is saying, and the trendy guy/girl with an "I'm better than you" attitude and some imagined, asinine problem that is out of the cashier's hands.
Of course, there's only one register open and the other halfwitted teenage employee is in the back sniffing nail polish and shooting himself in the balls with a price gun. Heaven-fucking-forbid the simpleton opens another register so I can buy my whiskey and leave. Then, some squabbling couple gets in line behind me and I have to listen to them argue about god knows what while Pedro's 15 refugee kids run around sticking candy bars down their pants. After putting up with all this shit, people still look at me like I have a problem when I start drinking in the store. The term "pain in the ass" couldn't make any more sense unless I had an appointment with a disgruntled proctologist who's mad at the world.
I walk down the isle and some bitch runs over my foot with her shopping cart. Not only does she not apologize, she looks at me like it's my fault. Listen twat, you may lack the intelligence required to maneuver a shopping cart, but that won't keep me from getting pissed off, flipping the cart, and lighting it on fire. And for fuck's sake, take your carts with you when you shop. You can't just leave it in the middle of an aisle and bring food to it. If I see anyone pulling that shit, I'm going to ambush them when they come back to their cart, kick their ass, tie them to their cart, and roll them into traffic. The last thing I need is your stupid cart blocking the items I want.
