A few not-so-kind words for Ralph's checkout #3 cashier

Hey horrible checkout #3 lady at Ralph’s. Yeah you, the one with the giant chip on her shoulder who scowls her way through life and treats everyone who comes through her line like the littlest kid on a playground full of bullies.

I get it. Your life sucks. You’re 45 and working the register at Ralph’s. Something in your life hasn’t gone right, that we can all agree on, but I promise you, whatever it is, we didn’t do it. Well, maybe that guy with the mullet loitering near the magazines did. I don’t know you that well. But it wasn’t the rest of us.

I was fine when you raised your eyebrows and let out a smirk at my boxed wine and felt the need to make a completely unnecessary storewide announcement about my Step Up DVD box set, because we both know that I’m going home to an awesome night of drunken dance-tastic-ness with loved ones while you spend your evening ringing up snotty college kids and shoeing bums out the door.

I was okay when you berated the redneck in the wife beater for not having correct change. He looked like he could handle himself and wasn’t listening to you anyway. It seemed a little mean when you impatiently tapped your fingers and huffed and puffed loudly at the poor young mother trying to write out a check while her baby squirmed in her arms, but I guess I can let that slide too. I mean, who still writes checks?

But then you crossed the line.

There was a sweet old man who chatted with me as we stood in line. He’d lost his wife fairly recently and was shopping for the first time for just himself. When his turn came up, he laid his coupons out on the counter, much to your clear dismay. Do you remember him? You should. Because for a reason I can only assume came from Satan himself, you decided to hold up his $1.29 box of macaroni and cheese, let out a huge sigh and announce how you now had to return the box because he had the wrong brand to match the coupon. You then proceeded to pound on the register, hand the box to the bag girl while mumbling loudly about stupid customers, all while refusing to acknowledge the poor, completely confused man.

Your little black heart couldn’t allow you to give him the 30-cent discount anyway or, God forbid, get on that little mic we all know worked so well and ask someone to bring the right one up? Or at the very least, treat him like a human being?

I often want to punch people, but you, Ralph’s checkout #3 lady, you almost put me back into court-ordered anger management courses. I almost threw up from fighting my rage. The only way I kept from exploding was by cracking open my box of wine right in the line and letting Mr. Redneck talk me down. So, since I can’t hit you, I offer you these words. 

You will continue to work your crappy $8-an-hour job and return to your crappy apartment alone where you will curse everyone and everything while sitting in front of your 13-inch box TV set eating a generic brand Salisbury steak frozen dinner. Then you will do it again the next day and the next until you die. No one will ever love you or care. Your life isn’t this way because the economy is bad or you’ve been wronged in some way. Your life, Ralph’s checkout line #3 cashier, will always be terrible because you are a bad person and you deserve it.

Now, try to have a pleasant day. I have some Channing Tatum to attend to.

Dr. Em