I fucking hate the people who work in the supermarket.

            Can someone explain to me when we started treating these people like our dealers?   Maybe in the olden days the guy who ran the cornershop was someone you saw every day for years until he was finally murdered… Familiarity led to a certain amiable interest…

            But why, the fuck, am I meant to be chirpy and chatty with one of the hundred faceless fuckwits that work in the supermarket?  Why am I meant to make small talk with some random teenage pigfucker just because he’s bored or trying to stand out? 

            Let me cite an example:

            The other day I went to purchase some tasty, tasty cigarettes.  I waited for fifteen minutes in a queue made up of the scum of the Earth.  These were the kind of filth who go to the cigarette counter to pay for their loaf of bread and a tomato.  They pay by fucking card or cheque for five minutes.  Fucking scum.

            Anyway…

            The sixteen year old streak of semi-post-pubescent piss is trying to engage people in conversation about the previous night’s England match.  I wasn’t paying much attention but he asked the bloke in front who’d bought a loaf of bread the same question as he’d asked every other person.  They then chatted for a minute or two.

            Let’s be clear:

            England played shit.  It was an exercise in torture.  Halfway through I just turned the chair round and looked at the wall.  I fixed every broken thing I could find and took several things apart to see how they worked. 

            I expressed the above opinion in roughly those terms, along with a mention of slamming my head against the floor to ward off any flicker of consciousness that might have caused me to experience the full horror of the tedious sporting abortion.  It seemed a perfectly natural statement and one that would be understood by anybody who’d watched the fucking thing.  The fact that England scored, entirely undeservedly, does not magically wipe away the tedious drudgery.

            The entire queue turned and stared at me.  They looked at me like I was a mental.  The hot chick next to the prick who asked the question stopped writing on her clipboard.

            I fucking got called “Sir”.

            I guess I could have just said “yes”… or “yeah, let’s hope we beat Portugal.”

            But why the fuck should I have to?  Why should I be cordial?  He didn’t give a flying fuck what my answer was.  None of these people care what the answers to their questions are… especially “how are you?”

            People I’ve known for years barely care when I speak to them.  They have a pre-programmed set of responses.  They also pretend I’m not there after a while.  Why should I try to engage with people who see thousands of people every day?  Most of those are bound to be better looking than me. 

            Why do we bother?  It only slows down the whole process of getting things into our mouths.  I just want my fucking cigarettes.

I know I’m not going to wear any of the eighteen year old supermarket chicks like a gimp mask.  Hell, she’s seen the pathetic angry loner shit I’m buying.  I may be able to hide the microwaveable cheeseburger from the prying eyes of the woman behind me in the line… but not from the tasty strumpet wafting it over the laser scanner… wafting it with those flexible wrists… those strong wrists toned from picking up heavy bean tins… God… she’d tear it off and I’d enjoy it…

As for their spotty male counterparts…  I have never found a single reason to talk to some bloke ten years younger than me…  I’ve found very few reasons to talk to any bloke…  Hell, ever since puberty the few times I’ve engaged in conversation have been an attempt to insert part of my body into a drunken female receptacle.  Why… THE FUCK… would I want to talk to someone working IN A FUCKING SUPERMARKET about ANYTHING?
These people aren’t there killing time until they complete their masters in philosophy.  They’re the kind of little cunt that shouts outside in the middle of the night and dreams of spending their wages on a nitrous system for their dad’s fucking Volvo.

             I’ll give the old women who work there a pass as they’re clearly waiting for death.  Also they’ve all got Alzheimer’s so, not only do they not remember asking the same inane question, they all think you’re their long lost sailor son.

            We’re supposed to be chummy with everyone now, regardless of merit.  We’re supposed to be polite and sociable and suitably casual.  We’re not supposed to tell them to fuck off.

            Normal people are immensely boring in general.  The people in the supermarket are subnormal.  There’s a reason their job requires no qualifications and why they let those two freaks work in the cafeteria - passing stuff over a little light is the least skilled job description on Earth… that includes people who list their occupation as “research cadavers”.
           
            I’m sure you’re the life of the party outside of work.  I’m sure your mates think you’re great… but that’s because you’re able to buy the largest box of fucking crayons in the shop… you fucking underage, underbrained child.

            Just because you have a fucking job does not make you part of the adult world.  If you didn’t have to transport my cigarettes two feet I would never speak to you.  I would cheer if I saw you’d been hit by a car on the news.  I hope wolves are at home ripping apart your family.  Just give me the fucking cigarettes and choke to death on your cocky cuntishness.

If you think for one second the fact that you get to look down on me because I called you on your shit… well… give it twenty years…

Yeah… I won’t have a job and you might… but I’ll be dead… and I’ll be fucking your great-grandma in the arse while your great-great-grandma watches.

Fuck you Cigarette Counter spawn.

Oh, and if someone who works at that supermarket… I think you’ll probably remember me by the hushed silence that ran round the fucking place… The girl standing next to the fucker who asked me about the football... the one behind the counter at about five in the afternoon is fucking one of your boyfriends without you knowing.  The cigarette counter guy knows all about this.
           
            In short, and more pointedly:

            Fuckers.

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