The Long Overdue, Highly Awaited Return of the Single Finger Salute.

The supermarket nearest Prof Central finally installed a self-checkout station, presumably to make the process of purchasing diapers or condoms more anonymous for those who choose not to discuss the proper application of such items with fellow shoppers.

For those of you who live on a windfarm, the concept of the station is remarkably simple – you scan your items, you bag them, you pay and you leave.

I needed four items: kitchen garbage bags, bananas, yogurt and the latest Food Network magazine. I gathered my goods and schlepped my basket to the self-checkout station. After a thorough once-over of the unit, I felt sufficiently familiar with it and pushed the button that said “Begin Checkout.” A very pleasant electronic female voice squirted out of the machine.

“Please scan your first item,” she said.

I grabbed the garbage bags from the basket, spun the box around four or five times until I located the little bar code, and then let it hover over the airspace of the scanner. I swiped it back and forth across the scanner a few times, waiting for the beep.

“Please scan your first item,” she said again.

“I’m trying!” I said, marginally panicked.

After another pass or two over the scanner, I finally heard the beep.

“Four dollars and ninety-nine cents,” she said. “Please scan your next item.”

I put the trash bags into their own plastic bag -- something we can discuss another time -- then grabbed the bananas from my shopping basket and ran it across the scanner. Once. Twice, Three times. Four times. No beep.

“Please scan your next item,” she said.

“Shut up, you frigid bitch. I’m trying,” I said.

Growing increasingly agitated and feeling as though my dreams of a career in supermarket checking were atrophying in front of me, I continued trying to scan the nanners. Still no beep.

“Please scan your next item,” she said.

“I heard you!” I said. “Zip it!”

I put the bananas down, hoping that perhaps there was a problem with the bar code instead of the more likely problem: user error. I grabbed the Rachael Ray-laden magazine and tried scanning it, but the same dismal failure ensued. I scanned and scanned and scanned, and nothing happened.

At this point, my blood was boiling. A line of weekend shoppers was forming behind me, waiting to be similarly embarrassed by this stupid fucking machine of death.

“Please scan your next item,” she said again.

“OK, you chatty hag,” I said, throwing the merch back into the basket. “Here comes my next item right now.”

With that I rolled up my sleeve, stretched for a second, and waved my best single finger salute, right to the scanner. I shook it back and forth to make sure the evil woman inside the machine got a good look at my angry knuckle hair.

"Please scan next item."

At this point, I was on the verge of kicking puppies and stealing from the Boy Scouts out front. I leaned over the machine, practically riding it, yelling like every failed junior high football coach south of Missouri.

“Here!” I said, riding the scanner, extending both middle fingers and screaming at the top of my lungs. “Here’s the next item! Right here! Is it on sale? Huh? Huh? Huh?”

Beep.

“One dollar and forty-nine cents,” she said. “Please scan your next item.”

Ohhhhh, I don't think so. Now go do what the finger tells you...