I will show you fear in a handful of Pringles crumbs

Yesterday:

There's a new ajumma working the day shift at my local 7-Eleven, and I'm sure her brazenly disrespectful attitude is not reserved solely for The Man, rather everyone. I walk in, snatch a sandwich, a microwaveable pizza thingy, a bag of chips, a Twix, a bottle of soju, a 700mL beer, a bottle of water, plop them down on the counter and order a pack of This cigarettes; and this lady has the gall to toss a plastic bag on the counter and tell me to bag everything myself. Who the hell does she think she is, Queen Empress of Cashiers?

I'm so going to get her fired. I'm a respected man in this neighborhood, and nobody tells me to bag my own carp. If I wanted to do that, I'd shop at motherfucking E-Mart.

Today:

Now, my genuine reaction yesterday wasn't as described; in truth, I was slightly annoyed and then forgot about it.

But today I waltz into Ye Olde 7-Eleven, and this ajumma -- who's slowly becoming my nemesis -- is again working. I grab a bottle of Asahi Dry, a 600mL bottle of Powerade (because I like having green stools), a can of shaving cream, a triangle kimbap, and some frozen microwaveable sweet-and-sour chicken. My nemesis-cashier rings up the sale (picture her wearing a green visor and Old West-style armbands; it's funnier that way) then takes my money -- but not before she throws a black plastic bag on the counter, covering my purchases like a death shroud.

OK, now I see; It's become a battle of wills. I take my change and look scornfully at my unbagged stuff, then at my nemesis. She looks back impassively.

Just as I'm about to launch a sarcastic retort ("While I appreciate the vote of confidence, rumors of my telekinetic powers are greatly exaggerated. Those things aren't going to bag themselves, lady"), a high school girl walks up behind me with a carton of banana milk. Thankful for the diversion, the ajumma looks over my shoulder and says with a smile -- where's my smile is what I wanna know -- "That's 800 won."

And in the interval it hits me how stupid my haranguing of this woman would be. This particular 7-Eleven has a part-time worker turnover rate roughly equal to that of customers at a random love hotel on a busy weekend. In the past week alone I've seen three women of varying ages start and then quit the same day, or the day after (I'm especially sorrowful that the 2nd girl, a twenty-something lass who looked like a younger, hotter version of Lee Young-Ae, is no longer part of the 7-Eleven team); and judging by her demeanor, it's pretty safe to say this affront to friendly service won't be around much longer, either. I doubt she would have cared if I had launched into her. In fact, she probably was hoping I had. Women are like that.

So I swallowed my pride and started to bag my own items. Again, if I wanted to do that, I'd shop at the Big Gay E-Mart.

But here's my question: was I expecting too much? Am I overreacting by expecting a 7-Eleven cashier to bag my shit? Did some cultural revolution of which I'm unaware recently occur? Have the 7-Eleven serfs been emancipated? If so, what's next?

Anarchy, friends. Anarchy.

(Word to Jon Bender)