Don’t Get Behind Me

Don’t get in line behind me.
I am waiting line death.
It doesn’t matter if it’s at the supermarket, in a department store, at the theatre, in the post office, or at toll booths, whatever line I choose will come to a catastrophic halt.
If you get in a line to use the restroom and you’re standing behind me; it ends with you soiling yourself.
I once got in a line at the Department of Motor Vehicles and it started moving backward. It wasn’t long before I was standing in the parking lot, surrounded by ill-tempered drivers who began pelting me with their nearly expired licenses.
I was in a receiving line at a wedding and the couple divorced before I got to them.
If I get into a line at the supermarket, the person in front of me will spontaneously combust, bringing the line to an unnerving end, creating a horrible smoky mess, and ruining all of my dairy products.
Or the cashier will get into a dispute with a customer over the validity of a fifty-cent coupon for brownie mix. The customer will tell the cashier that she simply isn’t intelligent enough to understand the wording on the coupon. The cashier will tell the customer that she does in fact understand the wording on the coupon and that the customer shouldn’t be eating brownies anyway because she could stand to lose a few pounds. One of them will use the word bitchy. The other will use the phrase fat and bitchy. Things quickly escalate and they have to shut down the line to clean the blood off the cash register.
Or the cashier will get into a long protracted conversation about her uncle Ron. We’re all upset that he’s back in prison, but if you’re on probation you shouldn’t smoke pot in your car and drive over the speed limit…or on the sidewalk.
I was once in line behind a guy who was putting his change on the conveyor as he was counting it out. As the conveyor moved, it dumped his change down the crack in between the conveyor and the counter. As his change clanked away so did his ability to pay for the item he was trying to purchase. As it turned out, that check-out counter was an impenetrable Fort Knox from which nothing could be retrieved. The cashier could do nothing. Her boss could do nothing. The store manager could do nothing. The store owner could do nothing. Evidently, the change had entered some unearthly abyss and was gone forever.
As you can see: I’m like Typhoid Mary without the disease and death. Sometimes there’s disease, but there’s rarely ever death. Except for that time I was in line at the funeral home, but that guy was dead before I got there…I think.
I had that problem with a particular spot along a bar once. But if I got stuck sitting at the corner, there would eventually sit a slobbering, spitting, life-story telling dude around the corner, spitting in my beer and telling me the same stories ovef and ovef about all the wars they served in and how their beloved wasn’t allowed to return to the US with them and will I go out with him.
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Did you go out with him?
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The only line I’m interested in these days is the one someone taunts me to step over. *grin*
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I double-dog dare you.
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I had that problem with a particular spot along a bar once. They could move the stools all they wanted. But if I got stuck sitting at the corner, there would eventually sit a slobbering, spitting, life-story telling dude around the corner, spitting in my beer and telling me the same stories ovef and ovef about all the wars they served in and how their beloved wasn’t allowed to return to the US with them and will I go out with him.
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I’ll sit on the other side of the bar from now on.
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