Originally Posted: 2005-02-17 2:23pm

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Cashiering Tips 101


I’m your friendly checker. Maybe you call me “the cashier” or “check out girl/lady/register bimbo/whore/missy. I’m a relatively normal person who, for some reason or other, whether it be severe low career expectations, a second job to make up for my insurmountable credit card bills, or to just fuel my alcohol habit, has the relentless task of checking you and your groceries out. I thought maybe some guidelines were in order, to clarify my miserable existence while working my shift.

Number 1. Paper vs. Plastic conundrum. I’ve gone to college. It’s real tough for me to ask this question. When I say “plastic OK?”, I mean plastic should be OK and shut the fuck up. The fact that you mill about making a life decision on whether you want your ramen noodles in a brown bag or plastic bag, only wants to make me shove the brown paper bag over your head and snuff the life out of you. Just say plastic. It’s easy for all of us in the long run. The conglomerate of a grocery store has already killed half the fucking forest and wasted tons upon tons of plastic bags. You bringing in your ratty, disease, dirty bags for me to pack your shit into won’t make a damned bit of difference, and will most likely spread tuberculosis or some other disease, so give it up, tree hugger. Those asking for .02 cents credit for bags they bring in, should immediately get their asses kicked in and their groceries thrown at them. Hard.

Number 2: I have a nametag. This does not give you carte blanche to use my name to make the situation light. Here’s the situation: I’m stuck in this shitty job, I check your groceries out, you shut the fuck up and the transaction is done as quickly as possible. Don’t quip and try to make a ‘funny’ with my first name, “So Mary, how are you?” or, “Mary, you look lonely that’s why I had to come on to your line!” Guess what? Mary is probably hung over and would rather stare off into space or read how aliens impregnated a baby goat from the Inquirer - but now your clever little quip will only prompt me to shove my finger directly into your leg of lamb so that you’ll have a nice thumb print in your roast for being such an asshat. In a word – NEVER address me by my name! Don’t even look at me directly.

Number 3: Learn how to use your fucking ATM/Credit cards. If you can shop for groceries and walk erect, you can fucking figure out how to use the goddamned credit card dispenser as you are checking out. Ready for a tutorial? Slide your card into the machine asshole! I do the rest! But you looking dazed at your card and the machine, only makes me want to flink you in the head with your card and call up Helen Keller or the Stupid Shits Anonymous club to help you with your dumb ass or at least cart you away.

Number 4: You see I don’t have a bagger, yet you let the shit pile up and look at your watch. This will only motivate me to move more slowly and also position your groceries in the most inopportune spots in the bag. HELP bag asshole, they’re your groceries!

Number 5. NEVER question me. When I check you out and you see a price discrepancy, and I tell you to go to the customer service booth – GO TO THE CUSTOMER SERVICE BOOTH. My drawer is closed and so is my precious time and interaction with you. I’d be more likely to help Sadaam Hussein find preparation H in aisle 8 and show him how to use it, than to deal with the price glitch on your sorry assed peaches for $1.29 which you had incorrectly read in the ‘circular” for 1.29 (and by the way don’t call it ‘circular’ – it’s a flyer, this will only get you a slap in the face with the plastic register divider, as will the mispronuciation of QQQQQPON – it’s Cooooopon assface).

Number 6 – When you see I am on a break, (i.e. I have a soda and am frantically running to the break room for my 3.5 minute break or I have my coat on already done with my shift) – you are by no means allowed to ask me about the problem with your self-check out problems. A monkey with his head up its ass can do the self check out – here’s another tutorial – you slide your shit under the scanner and it goes, “beep, beep, beep, beep”. If you fuck up, and the woman recording voice says, “please wait for assistance” – it by no means give you an allowance to whine to me about how the machine is broken. The machine is not broken – you are retarded. You fucked up a REAL easy thing
“beep, beep, beep….whoops, I fucked up!” – now figure it out on your own, ask someone who gives a shit or starve to death!

post id: 60161640

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