I must admit I actually like going to the grocery store. Yet there’s one part of the whole experience I dread. The part when I’m finished checking out and the cashier hands me my receipt along with a mile-long strand of the most pointless, good-for-nothing coupons in existence, generated by that infernal, unholy machine that sits next to the cash register. Coupons like, “Free can of refried beans!! (with purchase of one gallon jug of Ooze-E-O hair gel).” Every time I approach the checkout stand, I cast a scornful eye on it, hoping, praying, that this time the iniquitous little gadget is out of order. I’ve even gone so far as to tell the cashier that I don’t need the coupons. But he just won’t seem to let me go without them.

The problem is that whenever the transaction ends, I’m usually in the midst of shooting the breeze with the cashier, lost in a good small-talk conversation—you know, chatting about the weather, how our days are going, who killed President Kennedy—when suddenly that diabolical contraption belches out sixteen feet of the most irrelevant, obscure coupons on the face of the earth. Coupons nobody would ever use. Coupons like, “Buy one pan lid handle, get another pan lid handle of equal or lesser value free.” I try simply telling the cashier, “You know, I really don’t need the coup—okay, fine.“ And he shoves several hundred yards of wadded up paper into my hands anyway.

That‘s how it always ends. Without ever knowing exactly how it happened, I’m left with a worthless strip of paper that would easily stretch from one end of the parking lot to the other, yet probably only save me a dollar.

I’m not looking forward to that as I walk into the store. But first thing’s first: selecting a shopping cart. How about this one? No, it has some sort of jelly goop on the handle. This next one? No, it’s got an open jar of jelly goop in it. All right, how about this one? Wait a minute this one has a small boy in it with jelly goop all over his hands. This is getting weird.

When I finally locate a relatively clean shopping cart, it is invariably the one with the bad wheel that I have to push around the store sideways while it goes Clump, donk. Clump, donk. Clump, donk. I can barely control the cart as it bounces violently up and down on its bad wheel, my groceries actually catching air with each jolt. Clump: my groceries fly up into the air. Donk: They come crashing back down. I don’t even have to say “excuse me” to anyone; they just scatter in fear when they hear me coming. Clump, donk. Clump, donk. Clump, donk. Grab some bread. Clump, donk. Clump, donk. Clump, donk. Grab some olives. Then, feeling a lot like Frankenstein, I clump, donk my cart into another aisle where I scare the next batch of customers.

Speaking of olives, I’m glad I brought those up, because I would like to dedicate an entire paragraph to talking about them--those wonderful little green olives with the red pimiento peppers inside. Now, some people don’t like olives. I understand that. But I will admit that I am a bit obsessed with them, although I stopped referring to them as “globs of godliness” when I noticed that people were starting to avoid conversation with me. Now I just call them “olives,” but I’m still referred to in certain circles as “strange,” “peculiar,” and “dangerously unbalanced.”

As I head toward the checkout, I go over the plan one more time in my head. If I use the self-checkout lane, it can spit out as many coupons as it wants, but I can sneak off without taking them. Brilliant. I follow the checkout machine’s prompts quietly and obediently so as not to attract any attention to myself. Scan and bag. Scan and bag.

Don‘t look at anyone, just scan and bag. “Thank you for shopping with us!” the checkout machine finally says. “Please take your receipt, and don’t forget your coupons.” Ha! I think as I walk off. You’re just a machine! There’s nothing you can do to make me take my—

“Coupons!” someone shouts. Startled, I look up. It’s the cashier who’s supervising the self-checkout lanes, frantically waving toward that evil little coupon machine. “Don’t forget your coupons!” she yells. I smile graciously and sigh. Fine. Doing my best to contain my disrelish, I step back to the machine and reluctantly—rip!—that sucker off and look it over. I knew it. I just knew it: “Buy nineteen cans of Hunky Chunky Extra Funky Red and Green Lima Bean Split Pea Swiss ’n Brie Sugar-Free Soup and save 25 cents!”

As I walk out of the store, I feel vaguely disappointed that my plan didn’t work. I might need to implement more extreme measures next time. Meanwhile, I’ll just go home and think it over with a jar of olives.

Timothy Pike is a querulous essayist who hates gratuitous humor, but uses it whenever he can.

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