Toilet Humor at the Self-Checkout

I've written about past adventures in the self-checkout lane (Do I Have a Choice? and back-talking machines) at the social Giant and had another one recently.

Last week, I was about to scan my groceries when I saw a huge multi-roll pack of toilet paper sitting  on the shelf in front of the scanner. Oops -- I wonder who forgot this important item.

Man at the other end of the counter was loading purchases into a bag. He must have forgotten about the toilet paper.

"Excuse me sir," I said, "Is this toilet paper yours?"

"Oh, " he glanced up, "No. I don't need to go that badly." He then chuckled as he picked up his bags to leave, "Sorry about that."

A few minutes when I almost finished bagging my groceries I heard, "Is this yours?"

I looked up and saw a woman -- about to start scanning her items -- point to the gargantuan pack of toilet. I replied, "No, I was wondering whose it is. I asked the man in front of me the same thing and he said 'no' too!"

The woman shook her head and chuckled, "Uh-oh, this is something you don't want to run out of!"

I can see clearly now, whoa.

My younger daughter needed glasses so we went to the eye doctor. She must have my poor vision genes since I've needed, although not consistently worn, glasses since fifth grade. I had a pair of glasses that were seven years old. Been having trouble reading fine print so I made an appointment for myself. Did the exam and told the eye doc of my latest reading challenges.
-Oh, sounds like you need progressive lenses. He tells me.
- What's that like bifocals? I ask.
- Well, we don't call them bifocals, they're progressive lenses.

Bifocals. So I order a cool pair of frames. Hip Ray-Bans to lessen the middle age stigma. They text me, imagine that, text me to let me know they're in. I go in for the fitting and once I put them on, whoaaaaa. Slight dizziness, eyes dilated. Oh, that's a natural side effect at first, I'm told.  You'll get used to it. Other side effects include, hitching my pants past my navel, driving ten miles below the speed limit, and referring to young people as whippersnappers. Just love my bifocals, I mean progessive lenses.