At check-out time in the supermarket I follow these simple rules:
a) Go to the shortest queue.
b) If all queues are lenghty, proceed to the hottest cashier.
c) If accompanied by spouse, proceed to homeliest cashier.
*On gub'ment cheque day, send spouse and take boys to the park instead.
There are no guarantees that checkout time will be chafe-free and expeditious. Almost invariably, the little light blinks on and off as the hot or homely cashier looks around helplessly for the manager, thus prolonging the agony (though the hotness of the cashier slightly diminishes the pain).
When the time comes for the final checkout, (insert funeral dirge here), there are also no guarantees. In this case, I would look for the longest line and, at all costs, avoid the one where the manager is helping the hot cashier with a discrepancy.
Cashier - This guy here says we're cashing him out three months early.
Grim Reaper - Hmmmmmm. (Taps 'customer' on the shoulder)
Customer - AAAACCCKKK (...thud)
Cashier - Can I help the next customer?
Here's where the express lane doesn't look so good. "70 years or less" is definitely not appealing. The even more depressing "Self-Checkout" lanes will also not be one of my first choices. That's more of a Hemingway, Cobain or Ochs thing. Regardless of our preference, how or when we check out is definitely out of our control.
I know we'd all prefer the octogenarian "peaceful sleep" method. Sign me up for that sh*t there, today. Because of natural law, though, we can't all live to be eighty-nine years old. If that were the case, the highways would be crowded with Crown Victorias and LTDs, all driving 41 mph with the right or left blinkers on. You'd also never find Metamucil or KY Jelly on the shelves. Utter chaos!
Our culture has cornered the market on violent deaths. Those seem to be our preferred method of population control, though the recipient of such service would probably have preferred the aforementioned "octogenarian" scenario. I've stopped watching the news, since it's largely a grocery list of all the ways I don't want to die. Somehow, small talk and the internet toss these bloody news bits my way despite of my attempts to duck them.
Here then, straight from the news-tickers, are three recent ways or places I don't want to die. (You might notice they're all shootings):
Eating at Denny's - Botched robbery or not, please do not shoot me at Dennys. Though I realize that eating there will probably kill me sooner than usual (and if I eat there frequently enough, I'd be a large enough target for you), I still do not want to perish in this fashion. Whether it be inside, with a mouthful of "Moon over My Hammy," or outside in a parking lot full of rusty F150s and GMC Jimmys, please choose another victim.
I don't quite feel so vulnerable or susceptible to be taken out in one of those whacky fast-food chain massacres, since I avoid McDonald's, Wenchy's or TGI Crapplebee's as much at all costs. Somehow the locale of such fates cheapens the experience of getting murdered.
"Pudgy 38 year old shot to death at Burger King."
It would suck to have my name as the victim in that article.
"Spousicide" My wife will probably kill me when she reads this, but (rim-shot - cymbal crash)...
I'm sure Mary Winkler felt she had her reasons... he left the toilet seat up, forgot to bring up the laundry, or was even tapping one of the members of the congregation on the forehead with his bid'ness while chanting "Thou shalt not, B*TCH!"
Whatever her reasons were, I'm sure they could have been handled more amicably -- either counseling or a good old fashioned coffee mug throwing. Turning your spouse into a bullet-riddled corpse is a bit over-the-top. It's a little unfair, too, since we've come to trust you. We knows you crazy, b*tch, but we loves you anyways. Don't go f*ckin' our thing up by shootin' me!
When Phil Hartman got 86'd by his lovely spouse I joked with my wife that if she wanted to commit murder-suicide, to please do the suicide part first. Though I fear her temper as a lesbian's armpit fears a razor, I think I'm pretty safe from anything beyond a thrown coffee mug and a torn wife-beater shirt.
House-ful of Ravers This is actually a broad category, because though I'd hate to be found shot dead in the company of such, I would also hate to be found dead in a house full of hippies, goths, yankees fans, christians, other religious fanatics, hip-hoppers, light-brown supremacists, college kids, punks... Sportos, motorheads, geeks, sluts, pinheads, dweebies, wonkers, richies...
This is particularly insulting when you leave my remains amid a puddle of swill, empty plastic cups and clove cigarette butts -- especially at the hands of a dopey gun freak from Montana. Have some decency. The kind request I gave my wife applies to complete strangers, too. If you're in a murder-suicide mood, do Part B first!
Obviously getting shot has no upside whatsoever.
Other methods I'd like to avoid: electrocution, stabbing, vehicular manslaughter, drowning, poisoning, blunt trauma, crucifixion, flaying, incineration, anything war related, hanging, surgical mishaps...
I think I'll hold out for the graceful "old age" method. That's one long line I don't think I'd mind standing in. No cuttin', b*tch. I'll shoot yo' ass.