Self Checkout Quotes

So many likes and retweets for having the "GUTS" to say what every- one thinks ON THE FUCKING INTER- NET (but never in the street).

It's often suggested that as a culture, we're only interested in immediate gratification. Fast food. Self-checkout. Downloadable music, movies, books. Instant coffee, instant rebates, instant messaging. Instant weight loss! Shall I go on?

When did they stop putting toys in cereal boxes? When I was little, I remember wandering the cereal aisle (which surely is as American a phenomenon as fireworks on the Fourth of July) and picking my breakfast food based on what the reward was: a Frisbee with the Trix rabbit's face emblazoned on the front. Holographic stickers with the Lucky Charms leprechaun. A mystery decoder wheel. I could suffer through raisin bran for a month if it meant I got a magic ring at the end. I cannot admit this out loud. In the first place, we are expected to be supermoms these days, instead of admitting that we have flaws. It is tempting to believe that all mothers wake up feeling fresh every morning, never raise their voices, only cook with organic food, and are equally at ease with the CEO and the PTA. Here's a secret: those mothers don't exist. Most of us-even if we'd never confess-are suffering through the raisin bran in the hopes of a glimpse of that magic ring. I look very good on paper. I have a family, and I write a newspaper column. In real life, I have to pick superglue out of the carpet, rarely remember to defrost for dinner, and plan to have BECAUSE I SAID SO engraved on my tombstone. Real mothers wonder why experts who write for Parents and Good Housekeeping-and, dare I say it, the Burlington Free Press-seem to have their acts together all the time when they themselves can barely keep their heads above the stormy seas of parenthood. Real mothers don't just listen with humble embarrassment to the elderly lady who offers unsolicited advice in the checkout line when a child is throwing a tantrum. We take the child, dump him in the lady's car, and say, "Great. Maybe YOU can do a better job." Real mothers know that it's okay to eat cold pizza for breakfast. Real mothers admit it is easier to fail at this job than to succeed. If parenting is the box of raisin bran, then real mothers know the ratio of flakes to fun is severely imbalanced. For every moment that your child confides in you, or tells you he loves you, or does something unprompted to protect his brother that you happen to witness, there are many more moments of chaos, error, and self-doubt. Real mothers may not speak the heresy, but they sometimes secretly wish they'd chosen something for breakfast other than this endless cereal. Real mothers worry that other mothers will find that magic ring, whereas they'll be looking and looking for ages. Rest easy, real mothers. The very fact that you worry about being a good mom means that you already are one.

We always thought the robot apocalypse would be fleets of killer drones and war mecha the size of apartment blocks and terminators with red eyes. Not a row of mechanised checkouts in the local Extra and the alco station; online banking; self-driving taxis; an automated triage system in the hospital. One by one, the bots came and replaced us.

This book is written from a changing town in Virginia, but this class of mine, these people--the ones who smell like an ashtray in the checkout line, devour a carton of Little Debbies at a sitting, and praise Jesus for a truck with no spare tire--exist in every state in our nation. Maybe the next time we on the left encounter such seemingly self-screwing, stubborn, God-obsessed folks, we can be open to their trials, understand the complexity of their situation, even have enough solidarity to pop for a cheap retread tire out of our own pockets, simply because that would be the kind thing to do and surely would make the ghosts of Joe Hill, Eleanor Roosevelt, and Mohandas Gandhi smile.

Turtles don’t have nations. Or flags. Or strategic nuclear weapons. They don’t have terrorism or referendums or trade wars with China. They don’t have Spotify playlists for their workouts. They don’t have books on the decline and fall of turtle empires. They don’t have internet shopping or self-service checkouts. Other animals don’t have progress, they say. But the human mind itself doesn’t progress. We stay the same glorified chimpanzees, just with ever bigger weapons. We have the knowledge to realise we are just a mass of quanta and particles, like everything else is, and yet we keep trying to separate ourselves from the universe we live in, to give ourselves a meaning above that of a tree or a rock or a cat or a turtle.

One thing I’d learned out in the world was that nobody’s so different. We all buy toilet paper, contemplate the ply. Request help at self-checkout because something always fucking goes wrong, doesn’t scan. We all spend too much money at Target, stand there in the parking lot going through the receipt, brow furrowed. We forget to take our vitamins, to take out the trash. We microwave leftovers. Set our alarms. Waste time on the internet. Forget our passwords. We worshipped gods of our choosing.

I know for a fact that he regularly steals from self-checkouts and sticks his gum underneath desks. Those are not the actions of a moral person.

I’m in love with the customer service at Walmart. And by customer service I mean the customer is forced to self-checkout because there are two open lanes and 200 people trying to check out.

Maybe we should be looking at how we live, and how our minds weren’t made for the lives we lead. Human brains – in terms of cognition and emotion and consciousness – are essentially the same as they were at the time of Shakespeare or Jesus or Cleopatra or the Stone Age. They are not evolving with the pace of change. Neolithic humans never had to face emails or breaking news or pop-up ads or Iggy Azalea videos or a self-service checkout at a strip-lit Tesco Metro on a busy Saturday night. Maybe instead of worrying about upgrading technology and slowly allowing ourselves to be cyborgs we should have a little peek at how we could upgrade our ability to cope with all this change.

I’m a migrant worker picking frozen peas, and a clodhopper hiding behind a white sheet. I’m a shootout at Ruby Ridge, and a freefall of flames. I am closed for the winter, and crawling in my playpen. I am cold, and quick chatter and beautiful smiles. I am a man missing a limb, and lettuce and tomatoes. I am a palace, and fresh milk and goat cheese. I’m the great emptiness among Cubans, and a job that requires the auditing of truth and lies. I’m a confounding calm that will shatter fear and complacency, and a town full of self-defined renegades and recluses. I’m a public execution, and a lanky husband waiting by the checkout.

Humans will stop acting like robots (cashiers) vs self-checkout and work will be strategic and anything that doesn’t require repetition. Ironically, humans will become less robotic (industrial revolution turned us into robots) and we will become more artful, thoughtful and creative...because we have to...bots will do all else.

The switch from sales ladies behind each counter in five-and-dime stores to checkout lines, from waiter-served to self-service and fast-food restaurants, from full-service to self-service gasoline stations are among the responses to higher labor costs. So, too, are the absence of movie theater ushers and the wide use by restaurants of plastic utensils and paper plates, because they do not require dishwashing.

As she does, she speculates about all the aspects of the mortal world she’s going to have to explain to Dad. “Like cell phones,” she says. “Or self-checkout in the grocery store. Oh, this is going to be amazing. Seriously, his exile is the best present you ever got me.” “You know that he’s going to be so bored that he’s going to try to micromanage your life,” Taryn says. “Or plan your invasion of a neighboring apartment building

...she speculates about all the aspects of the mortal world she's going to have to explain to Dad. 'Like cell phones,' she says. 'Or self-checkout in the grocery store. Oh, this is going to be amazing. Seriously, his exile is the best present you ever got me.' 'You know that he's going to be so bored that he's going to try to micromanage your life,' Taryn says. 'Or plan your invasion of a neighbouring apartment building.' At that, Vivi stops smiling. It makes Oak giggle, though.

Once more I'm out, at one A.M., in some store trying to purchase bedding plants. The cashier woman says, "They're three for five dollars. You sure you need eight?" I"m distracted, looking at this man behind me. She ask, "You're sure you want to cut it off at eight?" This guy behind me in the checkout lane is wearing a sweater vest and his arms bare. He's waiting with a hundred-dollar bill to pay for Twizzlers and a porterhouse steak. Which leads me to look down at my own self. Do I know you?" he asks softly. No," I say, sighing. "Not in the way you mean.

Forty-five minutes and many pairs of kids' pyjamas, handballs and packets of coloured pencils later, I have had to swap my basket for a trolley, but when I get through the self-checkout and find out the total is forty-seven dollars, I'm so horrified by the low price that I abandon it all. That was a pricing mistake they made there. They made it so low it alarmed me and reminded me what a lot of mass-produced tat it was, and how it was possibly made my small exploited children in the third world. If the total had been seventy dollars I probably would have bought the lot.

With frantic abandon, John forced his purchases into bags as he waited for the total. “Sir.” John turned to see apron-boy standing behind a central podium that oversaw the self-checkout area. “Yeah?” “The dog food.” John looked to the bottom of the cart and the green bag of dog food that proclaimed to be “now tastier than ever.” He thought for a second about how much he didn’t care if his dog thought the dog food was tastier than ever and then bent down to get the bag. Halfway down he remembered the scanning gun attached to the checkout. Snatching it from its holster, he pointed it at the oversized barcode on the dog food. Beep. “Ha,” he spun the scanning gun like a six-shooter and placed it back in the holster. “Please place item in bagging area.” “Oh you’ve got to be kidding me! There’s no room in the bagging area you stupid piece of…” “Is

The idiot that had designed the self-checkout lane was an idiot.

Richie Norton December 31, 2019 MY PREDICTIONS FOR THIS NEW DECADE 20 years ago tonight I was in Brazil waiting to see if the world would end at midnight. #y2k I’m glad the computers figured out how to write the year 2000. Would’ve been hard to imagine 20 years ago all that has happened in my personal life, family life and the world at large. 1. For example, people could still walk onto airplanes — TSA didn’t even exist, Facebook wasn’t even a thought on Zucky’s mind. No Twitter. No youtube. No ig. No li. 2. 20 years ago was a different time. I predict the next 10 years will bring as much change or more than the last 10 years brought. 3. I mean - TikTok taking over the world...a straight up Chinese company dominating American socials? Amazing. We will see more of this. It will happen in pockets where kids want to buck the boomers, the x men and the millennials. Then it will spread. 4. Universities will try to become relevant again by not focusing on the diploma as much because companies don’t require them anymore (unless doctor or lawyer type). You’ll see people focusing back on skills, results and a mega double down on personal brand. 5. Digital entrepreneurs will start making more money with physical products because people want “real.” YouTubers in large will leave because monetizing will become complicated with more adpocalypse. 6. Basics will come into play with direct selling, conglomerates will break themselves down intentionally into micro-enterprises to stay nimble. 7. Managers will be forced to become entrepreneurs and directly responsible for above the line branding and below the line profits... or they will be fired. 8. Solopreneurs will rise because freelancers will become commodities to utilize. 9. AI will take over every job that could be done by a robot. Making work more human. 10. Humans will stop acting like robots (cashiers) vs self-checkout and work will be strategic and anything arhat doesn’t require repetition. Ironically, humans will become less robotic (industrial revolution turned us into robots) and we will become more artful, thoughtful and creative...because we have to...bots will do all else. 11. To stay ahead, you must constantly learn and apply. It’s the dream. My new community and podcast will help you thrive! Comment if you would like access. Love you! Happy new year!

also have a bad history with the self-checkout stations at my local Safeway grocery store. In my defense, the instructions for those things were obviously written by Russian spies as part of their plan to rip apart the fabric of our society.

A person au fait with the millenarian edict of knowing oneself does not need a tattoo, pierced ear, or gaudy neck chains to declare who they are. Eccentricity for its own sake is simply a boring fashion statement and not a thoughtful statement of what comprises a wholesome self. A self-poised person does not need to own a luxury car to determine their degree of self-worth. Nor does a self-determined person need to idolize celebrities, hate other people whom they do not wish to exemplify, or live vicariously through other people’s admirable deeds. A person with unique and contented self-identify does not flip through fashion magazines or scan the headlines of gossip magazines when loitering in the supermarket checkout stand. A person who contemplates the meaningfulness of their existence is not fixated with posing in other people’s raiment or observing other people’s nakedness. A person who knows who they are and realizes how to accomplish all of their life goals does not dally by people watching or become distracted by envying other people.

Technology is constantly replacing old jobs with new ones. A hundred years ago no one would have thought of being a computer code writer or a video game designer as a career. Two hundred years ago, no one would have thought of being a movie actress or an airplane pilot. To make way for new jobs, old ones are pushed aside. Today, we see the cashier at large stores being replaced with self-checkout; in a few years, the cashier may be as rare as the full-service gas station attendant.

The longer you live, the more you realise that nothing is fixed. Everyone will become a refugee if they live long enough. Everyone would realise their nationality means little in the long run. Everyone would see their worldviews challenged and disproved. Everyone would realise that the thing that defines a human being is being a human. Turtles don't have nations. Or flags. Or strategic nuclear weapons. They don't have terrorism or referendums or trade wars with China. They don't have Spotify playlists for their workouts. They don't have books on the decline and fall of turtle empires. They don't have internet shopping or self-service checkouts. Other animals don't have progress, they say. But the human min itself doesn't progress. We stay the same glorified chimpanzees, just with even bigger weapons. We have the knowledge to realise we are just a mass of quanta and particles, like everything else is, and yet we keep trying to separate ourselves from the universe we live in, to give ourselves a meaning above that of a tree or a rock or a cat or a turtle.

Maybe we should be looking at how we live, and how our minds weren’t made for the lives we lead. Human brains—in terms of cognition and emotion and consciousness—are essentially the same as they were at the time of Shakespeare or Jesus or Cleopatra or the Stone Age. They are not evolving with the pace of change. Neolithic humans never had to face emails or breaking news or pop-up ads or Iggy Azalea videos or a self-service checkout at a strip-lit Tesco Metro on a busy Saturday night. Maybe instead of worrying about upgrading technology and slowly allowing ourselves to be cyborgs we should have a little peek at how we could upgrade our ability to cope with all this change.

There should be a holiday to celebrate whoever invented self-checkout.

Life as a retiree took some adjustment. My first trip through self-checkout at the grocery store had all the makings of vaudeville comedy, and the short-term protective-detail officer assigned to me seemed quite amused.

When I read Quin I recognise her fidgeting forensic polyvocal style as a powerful and bona fide expression of an unbearably tense and disorienting paradox that underscores everyday life in a working-class environment - on the one hand it's an abrasive and in-your-face world, yet, at the same time, much of it seems extrinsic and is perpetually uninvolving. One is relentlessly overwhelmed and understimulated all at the same time. Is it any wonder then, that such a paradox would engender a heightened aesthetic sensitivity that is as detached as it is perspicacious? Quin mentions somewhere in one of her shorter pieces the 'partition next to my bed', how it 'shook at night from the manoeuvres, snores of my anonymous neighbour.' If your immediate locale doesn't offer you much in terms of dependable boundaries it's not entirely inconceivable is it that you'll end up writing a kaleidoscopic sort of prose that is constantly shuffling the distinction between objects and beings, self and other, and conceives of the world in terms of form and geometry, texture and tone. The walls are paper-thin. You rarely have any privacy. And neither do you have the safety nets, the fenders, the filters, nor the open doors which people from affluent backgrounds enjoy from day one. When you are living with no clear sense of future, day-to-day life is precarious, disjointed, frequently invasive, and beyond your control.