There are few things on the face of this Earth that piss me off more than people who cut in line. Linkin Park fans and Carson Daly are up there, along with PETA and Whole Foods shoppers; but when someone cuts in line (that includes when driving) I am instantly driven to Tourette’s-like vulgarity. There’s no excuse for it. In that action, you’re saying “I am more important than you, I am better than you, and my heart is a loveless pit of misanthropy.” Line cutters, you’re inhuman, self centered asshats and you will likely go to hell. This is your only warning.
“Gosh Conor,” you, the generic line cutter will say, feigning astonishment, “Chill out, it’s just a line. We’re all going to the same place, right?”
“Right enough, you cheating sadist.” I’ll respond calmly, stretching my hands and cracking my neck. “Right enough. But you know what? I was here first. This place that I have in line? I got this place fair and square. I stood here for 30 minutes, waiting to buy my tickets to see The Dark Knight in IMAX. And you know what? You and your giggly group of socially stunted friends don’t get to rob me of that time by just ‘scooting’ in front of me. You think I didn’t notice that? Yeah, you see me staring at you. Does it look like I’m a little insane?” I’ll ask, eyes twitching. “That’s because right now, in this very moment – I am a little insane. You did that to me.”
Then you’ll give the “it’s every man for himself in this dog-eat-dog world” argument. Don’t do that. It takes two to tango, friend. Maybe I’ll use that argument after I punch you in the face a few times and elbow drop you in the kidney. Maybe then, when you’re coughing up teeth and sneezing blood, maybe then I’ll say “Look brah, it’s nothing personal, I’m just looking out for number one.” Perhaps that will be the reality-checking-rock-bottom moment that you need, the moment in which you’ll see yourself for what you really are in the brutally honest mirror that is formed by my merciless knuckles.
“Okay Conor, okay,” you’ll concede finally, reticent to accept this revelation. “I’m a real bastard, I really am. But why does me cutting in front of you at the movies/Six Flags/the Jewel check out line/etcetera mean that I’m going to spend eternity roasting?”
“Well,” I’ll say as I gently ice my fists, those gavels recovering from pounding a just verdict into your skull, “First of all, because Dante says so. He notes that the eight circle of hell is reserved for the hypocrites, liars, and the fraudulent – all terms for which you qualify. In addition to that, your action – which might I note speaks louder than your words – says to me that you care more about yourself than you do about others. That, my smote enemy, that is a violation of the second greatest commandment according to Our Lord. That is why you must stop your line cutting ways and go to the back like every other God-fearing, honest American does. This isn’t the Soviet Bloc.”
“I…I’m…” you’ll begin, trailing off as waves of despair wash over you, tears welling up in your eyes like a child who just saw Bambi for the first time. “I’m a monster!” you’ll exclaim, collapsing in a heap of penitence and shame.
“Yes. Yes you are.” I’ll say coldly as I walk away, flicking a lit cigarette relentlessly at your pathetic, quivering form.
My work here is done. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.