The Power Pole Inspector

Cut your nails you animal, thinks the cash register operator as the middle aged lady stabs him with her manicured nails. “Oops, sorry.” She says. “That’s fine. Didn’t even notice.” He responds.

A bag of apples has torn open. “You don’t mind if I leave this behind do you?” Says the overcautious mum. “Not at all ma’am.” Is the air that touched your apples too toxic for you? How do you bear to wipe your own bum? He thinks.

A young lady approaches with her phone at the ready. “You don’t mind if I transfer some money do you?” “Not a problem. It’s great that technology is so quick these days.” Except fifty years ago people weren’t stupid and they brought enough cash to buy their stuff. He thinks.

The pattern continues all day. The register operator can’t think of a better way to pass his nine-hour sentence.

The two-hundredth customer asks “is this where I buy chewing gum?” “Yes sir, I can process that for you.” The register operator smiles warmly. This is where you buy everything, you senile old fart. It’s the register!

A young woman asks “would this dress make my bum look big?” Not at all, I think it’d look nice, he thinks.“Anything would make your bum look big you elephant,” he says.

And that’s how the ex-register operator got a black eye. His new job doesn’t involve customer service. He works as a regional power pole inspector, hundreds of kilometres from the nearest person. He loves it.

T

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