Robot Cashier Drink

Everyone can rejoice now when visiting their local supermarket. Instead of waiting for inept teenagers to ring your items in, now you can wait for inept customers to do it! While I'm less likely to get owly with a biker ham-handedly jamming his club card number in than the pimply 18 year old who used to run the till, I still believe that the level of frustration can be the same, if not greater. With the till we were corralled down these corridors between US magazine and a wall of  candy bars and that twilight zone between the impulse gum and the horoscope scrolls is the point of no return. These self-checkouts are set up, usually in groups of four, two facing two, often with little or NO SUPERVISION! Can we be trusted? No, for one cashier hovers around on standby waiting for frustration levels to rise enough that she comes to help us, but for that, we're on our own out here. There is a soothing female voice that lets you and everyone else know that you have an UNIDENTIFIED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA and to PLEASE REMOVE it, as well as offering you the obligatory pleasantries such as "please" and "thank you". (They grasp the concept of gratitude?) I guess my main problem with these tills is actually that jobs have been replaced by machines, save for the mother hen standby cashier, who was obviously the one cashier with the most seniority of the 4 who got canned in order to make way for the rise of the machines. She says hello and has a smile on, but as she probably prepared for these tills to arrive on the scene, perhaps I should ignore her completely in preparation for her inevitable departure. It would be incredibly rude however, and may result in an UNIDENTIFIED ITEM IN MY BAGGING AREA. This whole situation begs the question, who's head do I have to beat my 7-digit club card number into after buying the ingredients to Ol' Tone's Po' Boy Goulash to gedda drink around here?