Look. I know you were yakking away on your cell phone while the cashier was scanning your groceries. I know you were glad the lines weren't really long, and that you managed to get reception inside the store so you and your friend Belinda could talk about "dat ho" that your brother is going out with. Seriously though, it is not our problem if you can't keep up with what goes into your cart.
This is how the system works. You, THE CUSTOMER, hereeafter referred to as YOU, push the metal cage thingies with wheels (buggies, carts, trolleys, shoplift-o-matics) up and down the aisles. You cast a gimlet eye over a selection of cheaply made merchandise produced in Chinese factories and tainted with botulism, melamine and a thousand other poisons. You put things you might possibly at some future point in the linear space time continuum intend to pay for in the metal cage devices with wheels. This process is know as SHOPPING.
After you've tired or bored (likely both), you push the metal cage thing up toward the front of the store and stand in a line with some other people with more metal cage things - all filled with useless plastic crap. Unless of course you're a scammer, then you just walk out past the greeter and pray you didn't pick up anything with a security tag.
You pile your selections on the piece of rubber which magically moves toward the cashier. Ohh. Lookee thar Myrtle! Rolling rubber. It's not magic. Just pissed-off Oompa-loompas chained to a treadmill. If you're at my store, there's probably a surly cashier barely speaking English that does her job of scan and bag - most likely badly and with an attitude - but what do you expect for $7.0o an hour from someone who has to stand on their feet for 8 hours a day and deal with whatever washed up on the beach of humanity?
If you're a decent human being who's intent on going to the good place after you croak from eating, using or wearing our footwear or merchandise, you might help the cashier bag. If you're intent on experiencing the Dante Alighieri version of the afterlife, you just stand there with your howler monkeys and watch or maybe talk on your cell phone and not even place the full bags into your cart.
Every move the girl makes is in full view of you and that black globe thing that hangs over her head. That camera is so sensitive it can read the names (and allegedly account numbers) on checks and the denominations on bills. Yeah. Wal-Mart don't play with the money. So she's not "adding things" to your total.
After said surly cashier fills up seventeen plastic sacks full of toxic off-gassing plastic crap and poisonous food for you, you sling some coupons, some wadded up cash you dug out of your Playtex CrossMyHeart Extra Underwire support bra and a nice dose of attitude across the checkstand, get your change and leave.
Then you decide to get off your phone, stop yakking to your friend and see what you actually paid for.
Cue the stupidity.
ME: "Can I help you ma'am?"
HER: "I didn't get this. I don't know what this is and I paid THREE WHOLE DOLLARS for something that is not in my buggy."
ME: "Can I see your receipt ma'am?"
HER: "I do not like this. I am not happy. I want to know EXACTLY what this item is and EXACTLY how it got onto my receipt because I am sure I do not have it." I'm not happy either. I have to listen to people like you all day who walk through life on a cloud and have ze-ro concept of personal responsibility.
ME: punches in numbers, reveals department 90, grocery. "It is a grocery item ma'am. What food did you buy?"
HER: "None. I didn't buy no food. I DEMAND AN EXPLANATION FOR THIS AND I WANT HER FIRED." Woman, I can see groceries. You just gonna straight up lie to me over three dollars? Do you need bus fare that bad?
ME: "OK. Let me come around and look at your buggy." Just leaning over the counter, I see food products, like crackers and some orange juice. She's obviously into making a scene.
ME: "Ma'am. Right here. It's the orange juice."
HER: "No it isn't."
ME: "Yes it is. Right here, this is the barcode for OJ. These same numbers are on the juice and on the receipt."
HER: "No. That is orange juice." And she points to something that is labeled ORG something on the receipt with a different UPC.
ME: I dig around and come up with some kind of Original Homestyle Chicken Soup or some mess like that. "No ma'am. That's soup. It's not the name. It's the barcode and the number."
HER: Holding the juice. "So this is the same as that?"
HER: "Well, I guess I did get juice."
ME: thinking, "But obviously not any good sense."