Generate a Stand-Up Routine

(Walks up to the microphone, adjusts the mic stand, takes a deep breath)

Hey everyone.

I realized recently that I am my own worst enemy. Specifically, when I go to the grocery store.

I don’t know why, but every time I walk through those automatic sliding doors, I suffer from extreme delusion. I walk in saying, "I just need milk." So, I don’t take a shopping cart. I don't even take one of those little hand baskets. Taking a basket is an admission of weakness. I am a grown adult; I can carry a gallon of milk.

Ten minutes later, I am wandering aisle four, sweating, cradling three jars of salsa, a family-sized bag of tortilla chips, a bottle of bleach, and a hot rotisserie chicken. (Mimics awkwardly holding a massive pile of items against his chest). I’m walking through the store looking like I’m rescuing a family of very odd-shaped babies from a burning building. If I drop an onion, it’s gone. It belongs to the store now. I physically cannot bend down to get it without causing a landslide of dairy and poultry.

And then, you finally make it to the front, and you have to face the ultimate test of human patience: The Self-Checkout.

Who designed these things? It’s the only place on earth where you do the company's job for them, for free, and the machine still treats you like you’re pulling off a casino heist.

You scan your first item. Beep. You place it gently in the bag.

(Loud, robotic voice): "UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA."

It’s a tomato! I just scanned it! The machine literally just acknowledged it! What did it think I was going to put in the bag? A live badger? I’m not trying to launder produce!

So immediately, the giant red light starts flashing above your register. The Siren of Shame. Everyone else in line is looking at you like, "Look at this criminal mastermind trying to steal a single Roma tomato."

Now you have to wait for the one employee who is guarding twelve registers. It’s always a 19-year-old named Tyler. Tyler ambles over, sighs heavily, and types his highly secure, secret nuclear launch code into the screen—which is just 1-1-1-1. He clears the error and looks at you with a mix of pity and absolute disgust.

"You put the bag down too hard, man."

Oh, I'm sorry Tyler. My apologies. I didn't realize I was handling weapons-grade cilantro. I'll be more careful next time I disarm the vegetables.

And the worst part? The absolute worst part is leaving. You paid. You have the receipt. The transaction is legally complete. But there is always that guy standing at the exit doors with a yellow highlighter.

Suddenly, even though I have done absolutely nothing wrong, I forget how to walk like a normal human being. I start walking like a cartoon burglar. (Does an exaggerated, stiff-legged, suspicious walk). I hold the receipt up to my forehead like a search warrant. "Just a guy with his groceries! Nothing to see here, officer!"

Why do I feel guilty? I literally just paid eighteen dollars for cheese, but I’m sweating like I’m smuggling it out in my socks.

Next time, I'm just starving. It's less stressful.

Thank you guys so much, you've been great! Have a good night!