“Excuse Me, May I Cut in Line?”

“Excuse me, may I cut in line?”

“I wouldn’t normally ask, you see, but I did notice that we are standing in the express line here, which clearly specifies having between ten and twelve items and, to put it bluntly, you have thirteen.”

“Further, even if you didn’t have thirteen, I still have considerably fewer items than you at eight, well, I suppose if you count the impulse purchase of Big Chew gum and this month’s Life & Style magazine that I’m going to make by the time I actually get to the cash register, then ten items. But, regardless, I have less than you.”

“At any rate, I would really appreciate the consideration.”

“I’m paying with cash you see. So no need to deal with a forgotten PIN, an ID check for that bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 that you’re sheepishly holding, or any fumbling around for which ever credit card gives you the most travel miles for a trip that we both know you are never going to take.”

“Not to mention coupons.”

“You don’t have any of those do you? Those people are the worst to stand behind in line. Usually, I can spot the coupon clippers. I sniff them out as they emit a stench of equal parts desperation, failure to launch, and kitty litter. But with the inflation these days, I’m not always as good at identifying them. Thrifting and coupon cutting is not just for Humanities majors and the marginally housed, I guess.”

“How about this? I can tell from your gormless expression, broken only by the look of sudden panic, that you have forgotten something during today’s shopping trip. Am I right? Was it the mushrooms that you need for tonight’s Salisbury Steak? I’m always doing that too. What is it about mushrooms that makes them so damn forgettable? So, run along then, get the mushrooms. I’ll simply pop ahead of you in line. I’ll be sure to draw out the checkout process so that I’m only just finishing up when you come rushing back to the line, mushrooms in tow. What do you say? You can leave your stuff here. Your too many items for this express line, your first-born son, your car keys and cell phone, and your collection of rare and valuable first edition Ian Fleming paperbacks that, for some inexplicable reason, you brought with you today while shopping. Just leave them all right here and get going. No trouble at all.”

“No?”

“Oh, I see.”

“What about this?”

“What if I told you that I was that guy from the ‘one red paperclip thing.’”

“You know, the guy who started with a paperclip and ended up with a house. And now, convinced of the efficacy and power of ‘paying it forward,’ I might, I’m not saying for sure, but I just might go ahead of you in line and say to the cashier, ‘as well as my groceries, I’d like to pay for that kind gentlemen behind me who let me go ahead of him in line.’”

“What do you think about that?”

“No?”

“You can’t win if you don’t play the game you know.”

“Ok, I’ll come clean.”

“I’m not that guy from with the red paperclip house. And I was never planning on paying it forward.”

“But you already knew that didn’t you?”

“No sir, you did not just fall of the turnip truck!”

“So how about it? Let’s shake on it like men and I’ll try to do that Donald Trump-like handshake thing where I aggressively pull you towards me and, in a moment of awe-inspiring grace that can only be described as Boitano-esque, I pirouette around you to the front of the line and check out.

“What’d ya say?”

“Don’t leave me hanging.”

“Ok, fair enough. You win.”

“I’ll try someone else.”

“Excuse me, may I cut in line?”