Do not make me nail your foot to the floor

Hey you! Yes you, the glassy-eyed by-blow of an Alzheimer's addled bovine. When you approach the thrice damned counter to check out with your purchase, PARK YOUR PUTRID CARCASS UNTIL I'M DONE RINGING UP THE BLOODY SALE! Sekhmet's Scarlet-Spattered Skateboard, I hate waiting poised over the register for you to decide after you've made your second or third tour of the entire premises to deign proffer a form of payment. Granted it probably makes you feel all warm and special like your uncle Leon did before another round of your "extra special secret game" to have me hanging on your whim, but I'm utterly unamused. I do not appreciate you tying up my till with an interminably open ticket. Incomprehensible as it may seem we have customers other than you who might be waiting for you to cease your dithering. In fact, there almost always are.

While we're on the subject, once you deposit your stack of merchandise on the counter and tell me you're ready to go, it's understood that you are finished with your bloody shopping. The proper moment to bring up such corrections is when I inquired as to whether you found everything you were looking for. It is not when I have presented you with a grand total and asked if you preferred to pay by cash or card. Haring off to grab one more thing or a last-minute substitution is forgivable the first time. Attempting to pull that stunt several times in the same transaction is an invitation to try and break the world's record for the longest sustained water-boarding in history. Waste my time for the next fifteen minutes adding and subtracting various items until you somehow find the "perfect balance" and I'll get creative in ways with will make Torquemada break out in a cold sweat.

And when you attempt to get huffy with me, like you always seem to do, when your ticket becomes my last priority and everyone else in the store will be assisted prior to you, you will thank whatever hard-up deities willing to claim you as their own that modern society frowns on expunging vermin like you out of some idealistic notion you possess some intrinsic worth outside of compost.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be at the register. Thank you for being ready to go when you get here.