Thousands or millions or gazillions of years ago, mankind evolved from apes. What set us (and our prehistoric brethren) apart is opposable thumbs. We can grab things and execute finer motor movements.

So explain to me what the fucking problem is in the self-checkout line at the supermarket.

If you can’t embrace or comprehend the protocol, get out of the line, you prehistoric dink. Take yourself and your useless opposable thumbs over to Aisle 2 where there is a trained clerk who will happily scan your Tuna Helper and Hungry Man dinners and let me get in and then getthefuckout with all the speed I can muster.

Since it seems to elude many people, I’m going to lay down some ground rules for the supermarket self-checkout. As my attempts to video a short instructional segment were foiled by no less than THREE local purveyors of foodstuffs yesterday afternoon (finks, the lot of you), my written slap will have to suffice:

• To scan an item: pick up item. Scan item. Place item in bagging area. If you do not place item in bagging area, an annoying female voice will tell you to place the item in the bagging area. If you do not want to place the item in the bagging area, press “I don’t want to bag this item” on the touch screen. Repeat. There are no secrets. You cannot scan another item until you resolve the item in question.
• I appreciate the fact that you feel self-sufficient and want to scan your entire cart filled with 73 items all by your big, grown-up self. However, your three-item-per-minute rate could be trumped by a blobfish disguised as a grocery clerk. Take your 73 items to Aisle 2, wait in line and stop holding up mine.
• It’s adorable that your three-year-old wants to help scan the groceries. It really is. But when there are nine people waiting for a self-checkout lane, I need you to put on your “I was smart enough to know where his penis should go so I could make a baby” hat and realize that it’s not adorable right then and there.
• Produce doesn’t have bar codes. Stop trying to scan the godforsaken cucumber and key in the code on that little sticker on the skin. If there’s no sticker, use “item lookup.” If you can’t figure out the “item lookup,” follow the mom with the three-year-old to Aisle 2.
• Smashing your open palm up against the touch screen will not do anything to help you. If you think of it like throwing the remote control up against the TV, you’ll save yourself a lot of headache and me the pleasure of watching your temper tantrum.
• The self-checkout lines are computers. Computers are completely fucked on occasion. if you understand this going in, you will not need to yell at the clerk who comes over to unfuck what just fucked up. You will also not need to share your disdain for technology with the entire 100 foot radius.
• If you want to…fight with your wife, discipline your kids, take a call on your cell, send nine text messages or discuss the Broncos’ prospects for a successful season now that they have “Tim-fucking-Tebow” on board (a quote), please follow mother with three-year-old and I Can’t Scan Produce to Aisle 2. Better yet, deal with that shit after you leave the store.

Consider yourself slapped. I wish there were a licensing procedure for the self-checkout lane, but there’s not. And special thanks to Ryan Miller for a Facebook status update that immediately followed my own self-checkout nightmare this past weekend for the inspiration.