Actually, it IS Rocket Science

Worst checkout ever.

Sometimes I wonder if I was put on this planet simply to give others an opportunity to shine up their skills at being UTTER. FARTKNOCKERS.

That’s right, I’m bringing back fartknocker.  Circa Beavis and Butthead era.  Those were such simpler times.

I woke up kinda late today, and after exercising realized I was out of a few necessary items to continue my life as a well-put together individual- like, I don’t know, food.  And, you know, sometimes after exercising, one becomes, I don’t know, hungry.  And because I didn’t want to counteract the work I had just put in at the gym by stuffing my face full of chalupas or something even more god awful, I just threw on a headband and a pair of sunglasses and headed down to my local grocery store.  Because that’s my idea of making an effort; pulling back my hair snakes and shielding my medusa eyes from the world.  I even changed out of my sports bra.  I do this for you, America; you’re welcome.

They get itchy if I don't feed 'em on time.

Somewhere during my shopping trip, I picked up a pretty nice bottle of wine, because I’ve got friends coming into town this weekend, and they might see the empty bottle and think, “Man, Ashlin’s got a pretty decent palette.”

What, you think I’d share? Get your head out of your ass.

I’m kidding, of course.

…Or AM I?

So I finished up and proceeded to the check out counter.  I chose this particular aisle because I’ve noticed that this specific checker, for all intents and purposes, is pretty quick.  I unloaded my bounty of edibles, which were pretty numerous, and said bottle of vino, and pulled out my license to speed the plow.


And here’s what followed:

Check-out lady: Can I see your ID?

Ashlin:  Sure. (Presents license)

Check-out lady: (Inspects license.  Looks up at me.  Inspects license again.  10 seconds pass.  Still inspecting license.)

Ashlin:  Sorry, it’s an out-of-state license.  My date of birth is the second one down.

Check-out lady:  Yeeeaaahh, I see that.  I’m just looking for your height on heeeerrrrre.

Ashlin:  … Um…

Ashlin:  …I don’t think my height is on there.

Check-out lady:  Hmm… Yeah.. I see your weight… but those things are never accurate.


Ashlin:  … Uhm… I’ve never needed to present my physical traits before here.

Check-out lady:  Oh, no, it’s not a big deal, this just doesn’t really look like you.

Ashlin:  Yeah, well, I’m not wearing makeup and my hair’s pulled back right now.

Check-out lady:  Yeah, I can see that. (fake-ass laughter)


Ashlin: (does not say anything out of sheer surprise that she just got dogged twice in one minute by a total stranger)

Check-out lady:  Okay (Reads my birthdate aloud.  Hands back my ID)…

…So you are over 21, right?

(THREE.  You, Special Agent McDouche, just put my BP in a pressure cooker and turned that fucker on high)

Ashlin:  … I’m sorry??  Would you like to see my license again?

Check-out bitch:  Hehehe!  Oh NO!  We just have to ask that in case you’ve been sent here undercover by the police to get us for selling alcohol to a minor.  That’s why we ask, because if we ask, you would have to say no if you were sent here by the police.


Wait, can I just interject right here and reiterate for you guys some very important factors?

A) The ratio of alcohol to other goods is extremely one-sided.  It’s very clear that I just went grocery shopping for a fortnight’s worth of provisions.  If I were sent here by the local police, I don’t think I would have disguised it by loading up my cart full of food which clearly took a while to do so.

B) I just purchased a nice, mid-priced bottle of wine that took some time to pick out.  Teenagers don’t give a shit about the aftertaste of a decent pinot.  Teenagers don’t give a shit about legs, tannins, or fragrances. Teenagers don’t give a shit what they drink as long as it gets them fucked up.

C) I’ve got ONE. BOTTLE. in front of you.  Not 10.  Not multiple cases of cheap beer.  There is nothing that I am presenting which should be suspect that I’m trying to pull one over on you, lady.

D) Finally, I think you missed the memo on the old wives tale of “If-you-ask-they-have-to-answer-honestly.”  Please let me bring you up to speed:  It’s. Total. Stoner. Propaganda.  They don’t have to tell you shit.  That would negate the purpose of the sting.  …You idiot.


I took my license back while still experiencing tidal waves of sheer disbelief and exasperation that it nearly interfered with my vision.  Meanwhile she just stared back at me with that dumb kind of grin, you know, the oblivious one the dog gives you even though it just shat in your shoes?

Sometimes things happen that contain so much whatthefuck that you begin to wonder if you’re the one who’s lost their mind.  I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned it before, even.  Until you do a little head shake to loosen the mindfuck you’ve just been woven into and look around to notice that the woman in line directly behind you, as well as the boy bagging your goods, are giving the same dumbfounded look at the checker which screams “Are-you-really-that-devoid-of-logic, crazypants?”

Then you take your goods, make a CLEAR MENTAL NOTE to never again go to that checker, give her one last hard stare through narrowed eyes of an unspoken “Yeeeeeeuuuuu sooooooooooo stuuuuupiiiiiiiiid.”

Then you take your leave.

And immediately write about it on your blog.


Trackbacks & Pingbacks


  1. * kimbelly says:

    I’m sorry about the Fartknocker but hey, I REALLY like those Medusa-type head snakes you’ve got going on there. (Am I the only one who thinks they’re kinda cute?)

    If I were to add a cartoon to my profile pic, it would either being some kind of “sleepy-bug” hanging from my tear ducts or a cloud of halitosis emanating from my mouth region this morning…

    Yes, I went on a rage-induced bender… Even 42 year olds aren’t immune.

    | Reply Posted 7 years, 2 months ago
  2. * andy hull says:

    this is awesome!

    | Reply Posted 7 years, 2 months ago

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