Generate a Stand-Up Routine

The Existential Dread of Self-Checkout

(Walk confidently to center stage, adjust mic slightly, look out at the audience with a slightly bewildered expression.)

Good evening, everyone. You look… present. Which, honestly, is more than I can say for myself most mornings. I’m currently operating on a level of caffeine that technically qualifies as a controlled substance in several small European nations.

And speaking of things designed to make us question our life choices, can we talk about self-checkout machines?

(Pause for mild audience reaction.)

Because I’m starting to believe they’re not actually designed for efficiency. They’re a psychological experiment. They’re the corporate equivalent of saying, "We know you’re underpaid, but now, you do the job, and we’ll watch you fail."

You walk up, feeling competent. You’ve got three items: a carton of milk, a bag of chips, and some artisanal soap that costs more than my monthly electric bill. You think, "I can handle this. I have opposable thumbs and a passing familiarity with technology."

Then the machine speaks. And it’s never a nice voice. It’s always a passive-aggressive digital robot lady named ‘Brenda’ who sounds like she just got off a 12-hour shift managing a call center in the afterlife.

(Imitate a robotic, slightly condescending voice): "Please place item in the bagging area."

So I place the milk down. Gently! Like I’m defusing a dairy-based bomb.

(Back to normal voice): And Brenda immediately loses her mind.

(Robotic voice, escalating): "UNEXPECTED ITEM IN THE BAGGING AREA."

I look at the screen. "Brenda," I want to whisper, "The unexpected item is the milk I just scanned. It’s the only thing I’ve touched! Are you suggesting I’m trying to smuggle out a small badger in my reusable tote?"

And the light starts flashing. That judgmental red light. It’s not just signaling an error; it’s signaling my personal failure to the entire grocery store. Suddenly, everyone who is waiting in the actual staffed lane is looking over, confirming their suspicion that I am, indeed, the weak link in the human chain.

And then comes the real kicker. The weight sensor.

Why are these sensors so sensitive? I once tried to subtly shift the bag of chips an inch to the left, and the machine screamed, "ASSISTANCE REQUIRED!"

(Look around nervously.)

It’s like the machine is trained to detect the slightest deviation from the perfect, mathematical center of gravity. I swear, if I breathe too heavily near the scale, it thinks I’ve smuggled in a family of garden gnomes.

And you know what’s worse than the machine malfunctioning? When the machine works perfectly, and you mess up.

I bought those fancy organic blueberries. They don't have a barcode. They have a tiny sticker that says "Produce Code 4011." So I type in 4-0-1-1.

(Robotic voice, slow and deliberate): "Scanning… Item confirmed: One (1) whole pineapple."

(Stare blankly.)

I’m standing there with my $8 container of blueberries, and the machine is convinced I’m about to walk out with a tropical fruit the size of my head. I try to correct it. I hit 'Cancel.'

(Robotic voice, very loud): "TRANSACTION VOIDED. PLEASE WAIT FOR ASSISTANCE."

Now I’m just standing there, looking guilty, holding blueberries, having accidentally tried to steal a pineapple from my own shopping basket.

And the employee—bless her soul, she’s probably seventeen and has seen this a thousand times—she walks over, taps the screen three times with the speed and precision of a concert pianist, and says, "You just needed to press 'Skip Produce.'"

Skip Produce! Why is that an option? It’s like the machine is saying, "Look, sometimes you just can’t handle the fruit. Just move on."

So, I’m paying now. I tap my card. And the machine, after all that drama, finally gives me the receipt.

(Hold an imaginary receipt up.)

And the receipt is seven feet long. Seven feet! It details every micro-transaction, every weight discrepancy, every moment of my public humiliation. I’m not leaving the store with groceries; I’m leaving with a scroll detailing my inadequacy.

So next time you’re at self-checkout, remember: You’re not saving time. You’re auditioning for a job you didn't apply for, and your boss is a passive-aggressive robot named Brenda.

Thank you, you’ve been a delightfully non-unexpected audience! Good night!

(Bow and exit.)