DAMN TRIOS GOT ME AGAIN!

Yesterday I was speaking of certain civil acts committed by certain civilians that should perhaps warrant or at least be considered for real-time, real-world censorship (eg. too-loud/too-public arguments, pregnant children, gross or unnecessary acts, etc) and today, I got my first taste of reverse civil censorship by a civilian on a civilian (or getting C'd, as I like to call it). A little old lady cashier, who, was not much bigger than her empty cash register and poofy hair combined but, with either too much time, balls or resentment towards younger people (especially those wearing my clothes, looking like me and whistling, "Strawberry Fields Forever," through their front teeth, half-smirking as they deliberately and randomly emptied their cart onto the esca-table), unexpectedly and somewhat cruelly attacked my credibility - at 9:15 in the morning, in A&P, in front of my girlfriend. My, how embarrassing! I almost dropped my double double in disbelief, but I didn't because that would have been a total waste of money and a well made double double, which by the way is harder and harder to come by these days, even though I'd tend to think that, in an economy such as ours, companies would be trying their hardest to deliver the best product possible because, well, you know, with the economy being how it is and such. Anyways, let me back up a touch here. I applied and received a credit card a few weeks back (Big surprise there. What I want to know is, how does one not qualify? Because, if a 29 year old student with some serious school debt, no job and a touch of bad credit in the past, can get one easily and without question then, who the hell can't?) Hmmm. I mostly got the card of doom because I needed a bit of instant cash on the fly, (I shouldn't be writing this, but its too late now), but also because it's easier to get one if you're a student (that's what the teller told me) and apparently in the future it'll be a good idea to have something called, "good credit." (that's what my parents told me). But what is good credit anyways? If I were the guy who labels standings I'd call it, "Pays mostly on-time, most of the time?" Anyways, again, so, I got this what I like to call, 'Lent fake plastic money that we hope to God you abuse and overuse' - from the bank (yes it was during one of my mid-day bank excursions), and I handed it to the A&P clerk, so as to pay for my meager and predictable grocery selections (canned stuff, cheap stuff and Triscuits). "I'll use this thing here," I said, as I passed her a piece of plastic and some magnets. She then slid the card in the little slider taker and was about to hand me the little paper signer and - that's when I got C'd. Suddenly my little nice old lady cashier friend turned into a new age Angela Lansbury, a more jaded and presumptuous version, however, in tune with the times. "You got any id, boy?, she demanded in a non-threatening, yet still threatening kind of way. She was chomping at the bit, almost drooling to get the chance to apply her Police Foundations training (yes, even little old lady cashiers are not immune to recession's cough) that she'd been receiving at Trios College. "Uhhh, no I don't," I said taken a back, a bit. "Well you need ID now, boy. Because of recent credit card fraud, we here at Metro (what the hell happened to A&P?) demand to see some sort of picture ID, or, I can use my hand-writing analysis and lie detection skills I've learned at school to determine if I will accept this card and let you eat." Since I didn't have my wallet because I don't carry a wallet (because a chiropractor once told me not to), I decided to take my chances by signing my own signature. Because I was hungry. And now a bit scared. Now, I have to tell you that in recent years, I have taken a liking to signing my name in a variety of different ways. Depending on many different things (mood, writing surface, type of pen, paper, subject of writing, air/light quality, etc) I will write differently almost every time I write. Sometimes I print, sometimes I try cursive and sometimes I do a weird combination of curls, lines, capital letters and dots. I even sometimes try to sign stuff like a baseball player signs an autograph through a fence to a reached out hand holding a ball - You know. Quickly, barely legible, yet still looking cool in multi-coloured wrap around shades, while holding the pen loosely using only a few fingers and not much hand. Like a baseball player does. So I grab the pen and receipt from Detective Lennie Briscoe, intent on proving my innocence and her excessive doubt wrong. As I go to sign, I look up and see her staring down at me, reading me, all the while shielding my card from me as if I forgot how I signed it and was trying to forge my own signature. Which I did and was and she knew it. Damn Trios got me again! After forging my own signature I handed the evidence back over to Batman for examination. At this point I started sweating. Not because I was hot, but because I was starting to get a bit mad, and sometimes I start sweating when I'm nervous, and especially when I'm nervous and mad and already a bit annoyed. Which didn't help me in my defence against James Bond's personal grocer Pussy 'O Paper or Bags and her human lie detecting old lady watch, built specifically for her by Q, the head of the fictional research and development division of the British Secret Service known as Q Branch. Super old lady teller looked at the back of the card and then the signature on the paper, then at the signature, then at me, then back at the card and then me again and then..."These don't match up," she snarled in satisfaction, half-laughing in disgust as she handed the tampered evidence back to me. "Try again." Now hold on now. This was now getting a little out of hand. Making me sign once and thus proving myself unworthy to buy groceries from you is somewhat annoying and time consuming enough while also charging, proving and convicting me of something I didn't do. But twice? There's no way that the signatures were that far off to have to warrant a second attempt, for, there was at least some resemblance in the two dips of the 'K' and a slightly unvarying connected underline attached to the last 'n' that swoops down under the 'Wilson' and half way through the 'Kieran.' No matter how haphazardly and random I sign my name, I usually always at least keep those two things fairly consistent and somewhat comparable, thus saving me from exactly what I needed saving from now - the merciless grips of a tyrant in her late sixties who drank a bit too much prune juice on the rocks this morning. "It's really him," testified my girlfriend, now seeing that the worlds most ancient and intimidating one person jury might feel sympathetic towards her guilty captive - after hearing a little character testimony on his behalf. Judge Ito looked at her coldly, peering into her very soul and seeking out her lies. So, I took a deep breath, wiped my brow and tried again. I looked at my previous attempt and tried to do it a bit differently, but not too differently so as to raise more unnecessary suspicion and, how maybe I thought I would have signed the card when I signed it, but at the same time looking confident and without concern of, 'tripping up.' Nope. Couldn't do it. Too much pressure for no reason. I knew before I even scribbled the last stroke, that I was in for. No food today. Bruce Willis was taking me out. "Nope, still doesn't match up. I'm sorry, boy, but you can't fool me." So, my girlfriend ended up paying for my groceries and now I owe her fifty bucks and we had to wait five minutes for the clerk to reimburse my credit card because she still charged me even though she was sure as constipated shit that I was a fraudulent punk trying to weaken the economy with my intricate credit card scam. My favourite part was at the very end, when Jessica Fletcher handed me back by used and abused, however, unused credit card. (I'll probably still get charged for swiping it twice). Slightly smirking almost like I had at her earlier, she said with satisfied vengeance, "Here's your card back." The nerve of this little old lady bitch. "My card, I said, (under my breath as I walked away because at this point I just wanted to get the fuck out of there), now it's my card, eh?" Some people just don't understand the concept of getting C'd. Now I do, and I don't like it. When one tries one's best to be unseen, unheard and not bothered while living in everyday normal society as a ninja-like, monk-like fly on the wall, who's superior at slight of hand and illusions - you will still get fucked with by little old ladies at A&P with chips on their old shoulders (Sorry, Metro) who judge you on your appearance and by what time of day it is - and by whether or not they forgot to take their pills or can even see and hear what you're saying to them (No offense to all the real, nice little old lady tellers out there).