Saturday, 11 November 2006

• The Prodigal Son

  I've gotten literally ones of complaints about my extended break, so let's see if I can churn something out (my lack of will to live notwishstanding).
  
  If there's one thing I hate more than people, it's talking to people.
  
  My philosophy to avoid all communication with the average sucker slithering around the earth was strengthened the other day as I went to the local grocery store, HEB.
  
  I use the "self-checkout" at the store whenever it is available.
  
  There are a few reasons for this:
  A) I'm smarter/quicker at checking out than the "professional" cashiers, AKA highschool dropouts.
  B) I don't need some cashier looking at the badass stuff I buy and pass judgement.  Yeah I like prunes and protein bars, what of it?
  C) I hate having to participate in forced awkward conversations with forementioned highschool dropouts.
  
  Don't ask "how I'm doing".  You probably don't care, and I don't care to tell you.
  
  Don't comment on the stuff I buy or the stuff I wear.  If I wanted to talk to somebody, I'd call a phone sex line.
  
  Anyway, the other day the line to the selfcheck out was super long.  This is because most of the retards who try to use it take atleast 5 minutes per item to find the barcode, and another 5 minutes to figure out how to scan it.
  
  Thus, I was forced to utilize a manned register. 
  
  The cashier at hand resembled a white Urkel; an Albert Kennedy-esque lad with a propensity to annoy friends, family, and anyone within a one mile radius.
  
  After his standard, "How are you doing, sir?" question, to which I responded, "Okay", he noticed my shirt.
  
  I was wearing my Polish Power shirt at the time.  Granted, I like to wear random, cool shirts.  Though I occasionaly appreciate props for these shirts, I usually don't want to delve into conversations about them, especially with greasy register-manning blowholes.
  
  Urkel the cashier saw my Polish Power shirt and the conversation proceeded as follows.
  
  Greasy Nerd: Polish Power, huh.
  *I'm Silent.*
  Greasy Nerd: Are you of Polish descent?
  Me: Yeah.
  
  Thus insert a long speech by the cashier, a Shakespeare-esque monologue who's length challenged the limitations of time and space. 
  
  His diatribe was about his own ancestry, as if I or anyone care.  I swear, he literally went to the 8ths on this.  He said, and I quote, "I atleast know I'm 3/8 English", then he threw in a few other nationalities like Irish, Welsh, Vulcan, etc.
  
  I stared blankly throughout, as he fumbled through my items, being that his life story was obviously more important than my time.
  
  He finalized the conversation by asking how to say "Merry Christmas" in Polish.  I told him I didn't know, so he commented on how he thinks its one consonant and a lot of vowels. 
  
  Thanks, dude.  Thanks for reminding me why I hate people.

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