You’d figure anybody smart enough to drive the bascart that they’ve oh-so-considerately piled with a couple of month’s worth of vittles would be able to handle scanning their bags of pizza rolls and LEAVING THEM ON THE MOTHERFUCKING SCALE, but no; after scanning that 12 pack of Tab (on the tenth try, natch) they proceed to place it back in the cart instead of on the thingie that makes sure you’re not fucking stealing anything, and stand there, utterly befuddled, when they’re not permitted to scan in any more items.
“It’s not woooorking,” they mewl, with tears misting in their eyes.
“No shit, you moron,” the poor benighted clerk/chaperone doesn’t say. Instead, they sigh, for the two thousandth time that day “Sir/m’am, you need to put all your purchases on the scale.”
“But I’m buying tooo mmmuuuch stuff. It won’t fiiiit.”
Well, pigfucker, perhaps if you’d bother to reset your lexicon from Self Absorbed Turdperson to Half Sapient, you’d note that perhaps when the store says “Self Scanner: Small Purchases” on the sign, what they really mean is “Self Scanner: Purchases Of A Volume That Could Reasonable Be Expected To Fit On The Fucking Scale. Don’t Be A Dickhead.”
Meanwhile, I’m probably standing there with a couple of two liters and a twelve pack of Sierra Nevada slowly pulling my arm out of the socket. Smiling blandly, of course.
Attn, jackasses, a rule of thumb to bounce off your empty melon: if it can fit in a little shopping basket, or be carried by one person with two arms, you can self scan it. If you need a wheeled cart, get in a regular lane with the rest of the herd.
Okay, I’m all better now.