You go to the supermarket for some Pepto Bismol. You have explosive diarrhea, and your stomach has settled just enough for you to be able to venture away from the comfort of your own bathroom. The only cure rests in the aisle of remedies, and in your ability to make it home in time before the second "wave" of watery #2.
You reach the "express" lane and are relieved to see that only two people are ahead of you. You quickly enter the line stiff-legged and clenched, breathing in and out deeply in perfectly timed intervals, all while staring at the stained ceiling tiles, praying to God. Wanda, the checkout lady, is doing her best to speed the line through so she can smoke her fifth cigarette of the morning.
Then you hear it. You hope your ears are deceiving you, but they are not. The middle-aged bitch ahead of you, who only has a bottle of vodka and aspirin, proceeds to ask the checkout lady about the weather. We're not talking conversation on the subject of the current warm weather outside the building, but legitimate asking about the weather as though the lady scanning her hopefully suicide-related materials is a fucking meteorologist and knows what the current swell coming up northwest from the Gulf of Mexico is doing.
You stare at Wanda first, and you try not to judge her for the ongoing banter, but it is difficult not to, considering she is also engaging in long-worded sentences in response to the customer's queries. Then you see Wanda look behind you, and what was once a very empty line is now five customers deep. You can see that she understands the dilemma of time in relation to the urge of her nicotine addiction, and tries to get the bass-mouthed bitch moving. But, it is far too late.
The woman begins to ask the checkout lady about her son. Wanda responds quickly and nods with an appropriate air of dissatisfaction. Then the woman spits out something about her son, and how he's been graduated from high school for fifteen years and still doesn't have a job, and how she envies Wanda's gay son. Then she continues on (loudly) about something involving social security, and how she hopes she can find a way to get pregnant from the non-existent-since-the-sixties milk man in hopes of collecting alimony checks. Wanda laughs agitatedly, and looks at you with sorrowful eyes - sorrow for her and her need to put something long and stiff in her mouth, and sorrow for you in the realization that you should have purchased more toilet paper. You just shit your pants.
Even If you didn't have diarrhea, you still would have shit your pants just then because the bitch just pulled out her checkbook. And she wants a pack of cigarettes to go with her cocktail of pills and regret. But that's an issue of bullshititude in the Arena of Assholes for another time. Right now, you just want to scan your credit card through the machine and get home, which is difficult because the bitch is still continuing the conversation outside of line, engaging Wanda in a way that takes her focus away from hitting enter on the gawdamn computer, so you can run fast enough away before the wafting, lingering scent of shit can be directly attributed to you.
Moral of the story: Express lane or not, SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. Please and thank you. And sorry about the smell.