Okay, toots, I admire your whole endeavor here, but I can’t handle this shit any longer. The job description probably read something like, “Put things in bags,” and at first glance, I would have considered you mildly capable. I believe I am a rational person, but you have stretched me to the limit of my patience. You carry on blindly as you routinely perform CPR on various bags of Doritos and other potato chip products. You fucking annihilated all of my Pringles a few weeks ago and they don’t even come in traditional bags. Uncool, buddy. You handle my bread each week like it’s the first boob you ever touched. Speaking of that… why in the fuck do you keep hugging me? Do you think I can't feel you playing grab ass? How far does this have to go before I’m allowed to maliciously attack you? I have to be honest. Your awkward forward lean, combined with the proximity between your head and my foot, doesn’t make me want to kick you any less.
Okay, hold on. Let me count to ten. That was wrong. Sorry about that. I lost my cool. I know you’re trying your best. I should be more sympathetic. I guess what I want to say is that I’ll be taking over the bagging duties here. Let’s just say I have a very precise way that I want my groceries bagged. You can go away now. Here’s a bouncy ball. And something shiny.
Man, what are you doing? Close my box of Ritz. C’mon toots, I need those for a party. Holy fuck. Is this really happening? You would at least think that you would try to face the other direction or make a slight attempt to hide the fact that you are devouring my groceries in front of me. No, instead you just smile at me and dribble Ritz crumbs all over your boobs. It really compliments the apple sauce that is smothered across your chest. Did you get any of your lunch in your mouth? Alright, enough with my crackers already. Should I be delivering a left hook to your nose right now? How am I supposed to react in this fucking scenario?
Okay, are you done? Have you had enough crackers? You could close the box at least. Hold up, toots. Don’t put them in the bag upside down.
Wow, I'm heavily sweating and my teeth are beginning to grind violently across each other. If I give you some candy, will you let ME bag the groceries? Um... how 'bout some Skittles? Okay, yeah, um - you're not supposed to put those in... oh never mind.
Paper? What are you fucking talking about? After the shit you just pulled, all you can say is, “Paper?” You’re kidding, right? You seriously think I’m focused on thinking of what type of bag you should use to pack my half-eaten and fully crushed groceries?
You are raising some serious ethical questions right now. I have a feeling that today’s events will produce several future chapters in college ethics books. Would it be fair if I spun around in a circle thirty times and then attempted to rip your throat out? What if I wore a blindfold? I could tie one arm behind my back and hop on one foot. God, there has to be a way.
What? You like Nintendo? What in the hell are you talking about? I hate you.
Wait, don’t put that heavy chicken on top of the fucking eggs. Jesus Christ in heaven riding a brontosaurus backwards. Yes, I understand that chickens and eggs are categorized together, but you don’t ever put heavy shit on top of… forget it. I’m counting to ten again. You know, I should really just take over from here, champ.
You’re still going. Do you fucking speak English? Oh, wait… please don’t separate that banana from the bunch. Hey! Fucker! Holy shit! You just ate half of that banana with one bite. You didn’t even peel it. That’s terrible. Call the police. Someone call the police. Hurry up. I need to go out like a werewolf and get myself arrested before something horrible happens. Hey Goth-chick cashier girl, you can stop ringing this order up. Counting to ten isn't working too well anymore.
Wait! Hey pal, why are you awkwardly winding up with my box of Cookie Crisp? You’re going to throw it at me, aren’t you? Yes you are. It is really taking you a long time to accomplish this task. This would work a lot better if you tried to catch me off guard. Alright, it looks like you're about ready. Here we go.
Wow, my vision is literally turning red. I didn't know this really happens. Oops, I’m grabbing your Dragon Ball Z t-shirt with clenched fists. Shaking you intensely is slightly relieving my anger. Stop laughing. You are such a cocksucker. Just hold still and keep your nose right where it is. Forgive me for what I’m about to do.
Oh shit, ouch! Fucking pepper spray? My fucking eyes! You let this fucking kid carry pepper spray? Oh, great, it sounds like security is finally arriving.
These handcuffs are a really nice touch to this embarrassing situation. Yes, I understand my rights. As I am being pulled out of the store, I fight through the searing pain to get one last glance at the mentally challenged bagboy. Of course, his arm is halfway into my box of Cookie Crisp and he is hugging various concerned women that surround him. I bet this story is going to look fantastic in the newspaper tomorrow. Fuck you, retarded bag boy. Fuck you.