Asshat of the Day: The Self-Checkout Saboteur
Published: October 29, 2025
#SelfCheckoutFails #AsshatOfTheDay #BeverlyHillsProblems #GroceryStoreDrama #LashLiftCrisis #ObservationalHumor
"It’s giving lash detachment and public breakdown energy."
It was supposed to be a hit-and-run. Almond milk, cilantro, maybe a rogue chocolate bar. In. Out. No witness statements required. You dodge the lines, the cart traffic, and the forced small talk — straight to the self-checkout. Like a boss.
But not today. Because you’ve just pulled up behind the walking, talking embodiment of overprivileged inconvenience.
Blonde. Bougie. Branded head to toe. This isn’t just any shopper — this is Beverly Hills Royalty. She’s wearing UGGs because it’s “fall,” even though it’s 78 degrees out. Her handbag costs more than your car. And the car? An 800-series BMW convertible. Parked diagonally. Across two spaces. Obviously.
Normally, the housekeeper does the groceries, but she “needed air” and wanted to be “grounded” today — so now she’s here. In public. Scanning her own items. Like a peasant.
She approaches the self-checkout like it’s a prop on a movie set. Waving a cereal box like she’s trying to cast a spell. Beep. She gasps. Like the machine dared to acknowledge her.
Then she hits the real challenge: Produce.
She scrolls through the options with the confusion of someone who thinks “organic” means “fewer calories.” Can’t find bananas. Can’t tell the difference between apples unless they’re candied. She finally selects “fruit” and sighs, like this entire process has been deeply personal.
ASSISTANCE NEEDED. The red light flashes like a Vegas slot machine in crisis. A teenage employee appears, hits override like they’re defusing a bomb, and disappears into the void.
That’s when it happens. She freezes. Eyes go glassy. She steps back from the scanner — clutching her oversized designer tote like it’s a therapy dog made of calfskin and entitlement.
She whispers — dramatic but delicate — “I think I’m having, like... an actual anxiety attack.”
A single tear wells up — trails down her cheek — and then, tragedy strikes: her eyelash glue gives up. The outer corner lifts like a tiny flag of surrender. She gasps. Touches her face in horror. She is disheveled. In public. Under fluorescent lighting. She pulls out her phone — not to call for help, but to check the damage in selfie mode.
You? You’re still standing behind her, clutching almond milk and cilantro like emotional support items, Googling if rage migraines are covered by your HMO.
Public Service Announcement
If your grocery experience requires tech support, a full meltdown, and cosmetic casualty — you are not self-checkout ready. Please return to your Beemer, hand the keys to your housekeeper, and shop online like the rest of Beverly Hills.
🖼️ Firefly Image Prompt
"High-end grocery store self-checkout scene, young blonde woman in designer clothes and UGGs panicking at the register, tear coming down her cheek, one eyelash lifting, red assistance light flashing, long line of annoyed shoppers behind her."
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Coming Up Tomorrow
October 30: Social Media Zombies — the people who forget how to move in public spaces because they’re too busy scrolling TikTok at full volume with zero shame.
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