The lady in front of me wrote a check at while I was at Target today.
Like those little pieces of rectangular paper where you fill out stuff.
With a pen.
It was weird.
And then I felt sorry for her.
But instead of feeling sorry for her, I should have given her some very valuable information:
Hi, you know that when you open a checking account, the bank gives you a debit card? It’s shiny like your sparkly eyeshadow, and you zip it through this machine right here, see? This red box? Yeah, you just zip your card through that, and press some buttons, perhaps contract a communicable disease, and then…listen up, because here’s the important part…you leave. Yup. that’s it.
See, that adorable 18-year-old standing behind the cash register? She has no f-ing clue what to do with your check, and after she figures it out, she has to stamp stuff on the back, and write your drivers’ license number down, and then she’ll call her older, and slightly hotter sister when she’s in the stock room later and cry about how she’s not good at anything, and maybe she should go back to stripping, because at least she felt like she belonged. DO you want to be responsible for sending a young girl out into the yeasty world of stripping? Again!? No serrie, I don’t think so. So, why don’t you do us all a favor, and rip up that silly check with the picture of Garfield eating an entire casserole dish of lasagna, and grab your credit card, because I know you have to have one of those somewhere in that musty bag of yours. And while you’re at it, pay for my shit too.
Ugh, some people can be so inconsiderate. Isn’t it just a Christmas miracle that I’m here to set some nutbags straight?