Lines

Lines.

Maybe it's because I'm getting older and slower, but it seems to me that people are getting a little fast and loose with the concept of lines these days. With deference to various cultural mores, for example those of France where lines are treated with the same disrespect as unconscious American tourists in Paris, lines are, however, recognized more or less the same way around the world. If you live in England, you will recognize these things as 'queues'. Thanks to a little butt kicking handed out towards the end of the 18th century, we don't have to call them that anymore.

Due to the recent behavior I've been observing in public, it's apparent to me that some of you need to repeat Kindergarten. See this is how a line works: you want something that other people who got there before also want, you get in a line, you wait in the line, and then you get your stuff. Let's repeat: you get in a line, you wait in the line, and then you get your stuff.

Apparently, some of you aren't listening.

OK, I know it was tough getting through kindergarten, but as I recall the final you had to pass to matriculate to the first grade essentially consisted of being able to form, remain in for some period of time, and then proceed to some location in a line. With the schools lamentably being what they are these days it seems that this part of the curriculum has been dropped as well. Now, I know getting that gluten free hot dog at the baseball stadium is much more important than say, waiting in the damned line for your turn to order from Mr. Grouchy One Tooth and his drooling sidekick "Hammy". I mean, what the hell is a gluten anyway, and why do you want to avoid them so badly that you're willing to take the risk of cutting in front of 20 beer addled MLB fans? Luckily for you, since it's the gluten-free stand, most of the people in the line are too weak to protest let alone grab you, stuff the entire hot dog stand up where the sun don't shine and give you a one way, gluten free trip on the butt kicker express to ouchy town.

Anyway, back to my point. How hard is it to wait in a freaking line? This type of behavior is not limited to the gluten challenged, either. It has spread out of control to include bank lines, starbucks, bathrooms and of course, anything at the mall. How is it that folks come across this sense of entitlement that inflates their ego to the point where it eclipses their instinct to avoid having a hotdog cart crammed into where-the-sun-don't-shinelvania? And, seriously, who wants a hotdog cart there?

Maybe you should spend more time at the DMV. As the old adage states, "practice makes perfect!", and they have freaking lines that last for ever. At the completion of each wait, you are usually sent to another line. Plus, they give everyone a number to keep you from cutting in.

Chances are, they've had a look at your Kindergarten transcript.