People who still write checks for groceries are evil and should be exterminated. Especially the ones who wait until everything has been scanned to even start looking for their checkbook in their bottomless pit of a purse. Invariably, they run across pictures of their grandkids in the bottomless pit, which they then have to show to the cashier so the cashier can appreciate how precious Estelle’s grandbabies are, even though the pictures are now 15 years old and one of Estelle’s grandbabies is serving 15-20 for child pornography and the other is modeling for the Adam and Eve mail order fucktoy catalog, and Estelle can’t exactly put a picture of her sweet girl in a nippleless latex bra and crotchless snap-on panties in her purse, now, can she? Once Estelle lets out a deep sigh because she remembers babysitting her beautiful grandbabies while their mother went on another coke binge, she suddenly snaps to and realizes, hey wait, I’m the stupid old crotchety annoying blue-hair bitch writing a FUCKING CHECK AT THE FUCKING GROCERY STORE LIKE IT’S NINETEEN SEVENTY-FUCKING-SEVEN, so I should probably go ahead and do that thing.

Eventually, Estelle digs through the gargantuan patent leather chasm that is her purse far enough to find her checkbook, only to discover that, alas, the pen has fallen out of the checkbook. So in she dives again, even though the cashier has a perfectly good God damned pen sitting three inches in front of Estelle’s massive red, sparkly, patent leather monstrosity her friend Gert bought her for her fucking 10th wedding anniversary. This time Estelle finds her car keys. They’re in the way, so Estelle decides she’s going to set them on the counter next to the OH GOODNESS A PEN! Our elderly shopper now has to ask 4 times what the total is, because, well, she’s fucking old and forgets everything, only to write a check that’s practically illegible for a total much less than the cost of the paper on which it’s written plus the time of everyone around her that’s been wasted.

By this time, the person (or people) behind our slow friend are dealing with screaming children, melting ice cream, warming milk that will soon be infested with all sorts of bacteria, rising blood pressure, and an overwhelming desire to club this old bitch about the head and neck with that God damned massive purse until her dentures protrude through the top of her skull and her blue hair is caked to the terrazzo floor with her red blood. And you know what? In my book, that is pure WIN.