Passive-Aggressive Cashier Pinches Your Bread



Can you tell I hate you?


First Seen on Cavalier Literary Couture (Bonus: they have a very cool web site design.)


I know you.  Not by your real name, but by the name I’ve created for you. Poodle Girl, Mr. Tracksuit, Lipstick Teeth, Porn Mustache… I know you all. You treat me like you’re so much better than I am. Why? Because I wear a polyester vest? Because I have a name tag?  Have you ever read my name tag?

Hello, my name is: The Angel of Vengeance.

Perhaps you disregard me because you are jealous. I’ve seen you in the self-checkout aisle before; you don’t have a fraction of my skills.  I can weigh AND ring-up 30 different kinds of produce in less time than it takes you to find a parking space no more than five spots away from the automatic door. The same automatic door you huff at for being too slow to open. Every. Single. Time. Why is it still such a shock when you have to slow your cart from the battering ram speed you’ve achieved by the time you’ve reached that door?

You’re rude to me in a hundred different ways, and you think it doesn’t matter. But what you don’t know is, while you stand there in line yapping on your cell phone so I can see how hectic and important your life is, I pinch your bread.

You know the bread you throw out because it got squished in the bag on the way home? It wasn’t squished in the bag. I pressed it into dough between my nimble fingers while you were idly watching your kid knock 10 packs of gum to the ground.

And it isn’t just the bread.

You know those crescent moon shaped holes in your apples? About the size of my fingernails?  I grow out my nails just so I can tattoo my revenge on your produce. Sometimes their length slows me down on the register — speed of which I’m proud — but I don’t care.

I’ve cracked your butter sticks. If you shop long enough they soften, and with a little pressure I can snap them as they sit still wrapped in wax paper. It’s the perfect crime. It’s like finding a body in a room locked from the inside.

Feel like your yogurt goes bad before the expiration date? I’ve imperceptibly slit the foil top on your fat-free treats with a deft poke of my index finger right in front of you. I’ve done it a dozen times and still you never see.

Oh, and for the record, those yogurts may be fat-free, but the fructose in them contributes 11g of sugar, Stretchy-Pants.

When I ask you how you are, the correct answer is “Fine, how are you?” Not just “good.” Not an unintelligible grunt.  Grunt at me and when you think I’m securing your egg carton with a rubber band, I’m REALLY cracking the lid and flicking an egg shell with with all the force and accuracy that years of sitting the backseat with siblings has afforded me.  You thought you checked to be sure no eggs were broken. Looks like you missed one.

I’m sure once or twice you’ve thought to yourself, how did my bread end up flattened like a pancake? How did I miss that broken egg shell?


But it doesn’t matter. I’m not even the lowest animal on your totem pole.

You’ll blame it on the bag boy.

Amy Vansant
Latest posts by Amy Vansant (see all)

10 Responses

  1. Abby

    This is why I am always nice to cashiers, even if it takes them 15 minutes to look up the code for bananas (4011) or rawhide bones (1419,) two things I’ve known for years as a result of simply shopping. I do not self-checkout, as I feel I am taking away jobs from hard-working Americans…and I’m lazy and don’t want to witness the mouth-breather in front of me try and shove a wrinkly dollar bill into the slot over and over.

    But there is one fundamental flaw in said passive-aggressive cashiers plot to slowly seep into the shopper psyche and take over the world–there ARE no bag boys anymore. Any bagging blunders can be solely blamed on said cashier, eliminating the shift in responsibility and possible firing of a 15-year-old with acne that doesn’t understand how 5lbs of potatoes could possibly do damage to a loaf of bread. Sigh…I miss the good ol’ days.


  2. Amy Vansant

    I did like the self-checkout, but now I seem to be “randomly” picked for a check every single time. I must have gotten really shifty looking in the last few months.

    We still have bag boys here but they, too, are random. They sort of float around, and getting one to help speed up the process is sort of like winning the lottery…. or not… depending on the skillz of the boy.


    • Abby

      I didn’t know they randomly “checked” people. You must look shifty or as if you’re hiding melons in your shirt. Oddly, I’ve never been questioned in that department. Damn.


    • Stacey

      I was randomly picked for a check the day my basket was full of fiber supplements and laxatives. Never when I’m buying normal groceries.


      • Amy Vansant

        They randomly checked me and I had actually forgotten something! I was momentarily mortified and then I realized I’m freaking 40+ years old and I need to stop giving a crap what people think. No, I didn’t try and steal that box of noodles. And if you think I did it on purpose after *paying* for the $14 piece of tuna, you’re on crack.


  3. Kara

    You’re right, they do have a cool website. It reminds me a little of Edward Gorey. Love this story – especially the part about sitting in the backseat with siblings.


  4. Amy Vansant

    Thank you! That came from my husband and his brother’s otherworldly flicking power, learned battling each other, I’m sure. Equally useful flicking off a bug and splitting a brick.


  5. lafemmeroar

    Hilarious! Love it!

    Grocery store cashiers and restaurant servers can screw with your food if you’re not nice to them. Revenge with a smile … now that’s customer service.


  6. Melissa Hicks

    This was stunning. I’m going to be nicer to checkers from now on, I think. I really like the tone you captured to write this.


  7. Stacey

    I wonder what I did to piss off the cashier that charged me $8 for two hard rolls from the bakery . . .



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