Dear Grocery Store Judgers,
I realize I just bought a pallet of crushed tomatoes and a flat of italian seasoning. I loaded it myself, and intend on paying for and then subsequently using the entire cart of items. Your surprised looks and comments are at the same time strange and bothersome.
- “Were they on sale?” FUCK YES THEY WERE. I’m going to make tacos every day for 12 years.
- “Is the apocalypse coming?” It will at some point, yes. And when that day comes, I’ll be prepped for skunk-smell removal. And I will laugh at your smelly hate.
- “Those are too heavy for a little ol’ girl like you!” Then thanks for standing 20 feet away and commenting, dickbag.
- “Someone’s on a diet.” No, but someone is about to die.
I don’t pass judgment at your 30 pack of double A’s and Cosmo, ma’am, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t snidely comment at my zucchini and Mobil 1. It should be none of your concern why I have 14 cans of Disney Princess Spaghetti-o’s (answer: limited edition deliciousness) the same way it’s none of my business why you have nothing but Cheetos and Pepsi.
Additionally, I will try to get through the checkout line just as fast as I possibly can. You can make this experience a little less like a junior high hallway by:
- Standing at least 3 feet from the credit card swiper, Creepy McCreeperson.
- Not SIGHING DRAMATICALLY when the cashier makes a mistake and/or I pay with cash or a check. We’re all human, except for you, because you’re a terrible bitch.
- Placing your items on the pre-check belt, even if you have only 2 of them. It really fucks up the checkers when you don’t do this (because it’s fucking weird), and then I cannot load my cart onto the belt because she will become confused. It’s not an endurance test, you can put that shit down.
However, there is one thing I will absolutely judge you for.
Do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT continue your phone conversation in the checkout line. Not only is this out-and-out rude to everyone around you, but I will loudly respond to your phone conversation as though you were speaking to me, to do nothing more than be as rude to you in return.
You: “Why do you think Nancy’s saying such things?”
Me: “Don’t know. I can’t understand her with a dick in her mouth.”
You: “Um…Anyway, the doctor said it was just a boil.”
Me: “Well that’s a relief, I guess. Except for that boils were a plague of Egypt once. Perhaps it’s lamb-slaughtering time?”
You: “That’s so good to hear about Nana’s shingles.”
Me: “NANA HAS SHINGLES? How dare you keep me out of the loop.”
You: “Excuse me miss, I’m on the phone.”
Me: Jazz hands, then I flip you off while I shuffle step away.
If we can agree on the above terms, then I believe that we can all buy corn dogs in peace, without fear of judgment or scandal in the freezer aisle. And that, my friends, is the American Dream.
Noa D. Gavin