Queuing is for Sissies

Ah, the line-cutting.  Oh, how the lines here are cut.  The average Westerner here responds with a standard sequence of emotions.

First comes shock, shock that ten little old ladies have just cut in front of him.  His mouth hangs open in disbelief.  He whispers to his friends, “Did they just do that?  I can’t believe they just did that!  Should I say something?”

Next comes bitter resentment.  He stops leaving any space between himself and the person in front of him in line.  Ten little old men dive in from the sides at the head of the queue.  He roils and boils, he spumes and fumes… but he does nothing.  “Surely this will stop soon.  Next time… if it happens next time I will say something for sure.”

What happens next is anyone’s guess.  Some people spontaneously explode.  Some continue on indefinitely in indignant resignation.  My soccer teammate Brian started picking up line-cutters and physically placing them in line behind him.  They look up at his six-foot tall, bald-headed figure and laugh nervously.  “Heh heh, you caught me.”  He just glares back.

Good for you Brian.  Get even.  Win that dignity back.  Dump that bad mojo out on the street where you found it, so you can laugh loud and live large when you go home to your loved ones.