The facilitators of maximum entropy proudly deliver maximum annoyance. Obnoxious customers are Hell bent on giving service industry workers more annoyance than we are paid to tolerate.

A cashier making my cashiering average of $6.27 who takes a modest 150 orders in a given eight hour shift will receive 33 cents for dealing with one customer. Aside from the obvious offenses, this patron may subject the cashier to intellectually repugnant remarks. The most indecent aspect of such displays is that the employee is fully obligated to respond inoffensively.

"Hey there, hey there, I got a big one [order]" was a creative gem. Classics like "are you checking," "are you open," insightful weather references and senselessly informing me of produce prices are always in poor taste. "Do you work here?" No, this candy ass uniform is a fashion statement. "I like a "ma'am" with my "yes,"" one woman informed me after my slavely decorum faltered.

"Are you waiting for a customer?" I'm waiting to clock out and get the rabid fuck away from customers, ho ass biatch! Perplexedly, some dipshits believe that the prized delight of taking their order is akin to that of a cash flooded vacation (whatever that's like). Am I eagerly awaiting yet another self-important irritant? You can return your items, shove that tasteless wallet up your rotund ass and leap in front of bus 451 for all I care.

"Are you checking," lets analyze that popular question. For starters, a uniformed body is standing by the checkstand and facing the flow of customers as the gate is open. These clues were hopelessly vague for many people, so my company installed lights over all registers. Clarity has not been achieved. With my light on, I hear "are you checking/open" every tooth grinding day. If you are so imbecilic and oblivious as not to be struck by all the telltale signs of an open register, you don't deserve any groceries. If any cashier with a pulse is not taking orders, you will be made perfectly aware upon first glance.

"That's parsley," a woman who must think that I am baffled by produce told me. Bitch, I used to work produce and I've eaten more tabbouleh than you thought existed in Texas. Don't presume to tell me what parsley looks like. Some customers will actually state the produce item's name and proceed to spell it out. As patronizing as that is, it's even more unnecessary.

"It's free," many customers jest when an item fails to scan. They all beam with pride after reciting this carbon-copied phrase, as if they are so damned clever. I want to scream but suppress my sense of self and respond with a smile and amicable words that come out torturously. Only shoplifting would make it "free." Thieve away with my blessings.

"Do you have a trash can?" Customers will hand cashiers everything from paper to drink cans to apple cores, as if we are their servants. If you can't dispose of your own filthy refuse, don't make any, little bitch.

"Use my earth bags," a customer requested of me. She presented two canvas bags to be substituted for the store's bags. This hippie tree hugger is not alone, customers routinely make this request with cloth bags or grocery bags from previous trips. Unknown to me is what mystery messes have been made in these bags. I find fishing through used bags on command highly annoying. Has it dawned on these fanatics that the environment is a lost cause for delusional kids to indulge in?

In addition to being obsolete, paper bags are a greater annoyance. "I'd like paper." Your life is cheap and the only thing of yours that needs brown bagging is your smug face.

Last Monday, I was running on four hours of sleep and had forgotten my caffeine pills. A man in line turned towards a woman paying her order and asked "Is he [me] alive?" This comedic genius should do stand up--before a firing squad. He then directed the same question at me. What dignity I have left prevented me from responding. Customers have actually given me abridged lectures on the evils of cigarettes.

Some customers are just repulsively annoying people. A regular is pompous and loud for no justifiable reason. He wears a bicycle helmet and has fingernails like a coal miner as he buys his $1.39 snuff. The awkwardness in his strut makes it look like an adolescent affectation. He lets loose with a drive by barrage of pointless commentary and excruciating one liners in a tone which he believes to be commanding. The most tragic element of this situation is that he seems to think he is John Wayne, Chris Rock and Arthur Fonzarelli rolled into one. Last week, he jokingly feigned an attempt at kissing a bagger.

The common denominator here is that most people think they are special. In drive-thru, a slew of customers would inform me that the menu light was off. Like they were the first ones to point that out, and like I cared. Your odds of expressing a unique thought are infinitesimal. Customers are not omniscient and we surely know our job better than they do. A step in the right direction would be an industry-wide no talking rule. Sadly, that would deprive customers of a vice-like outlet and the workers of infinite wisdom.