Good morning, ladies and gentlepersons. Today I’m writing from the checkout line at a popular local grocery store — or possibly a pet store or hardware joint — for the very first time.

I’m writing from this cramped and crowded space because my column is due and no matter how I beg or plead, I just cannot escape from the clutches of the cashier.

CASHIER: “Could I have your ZIP code, please?”

ME: “My ZIP code? But I don’t need any —”

CASHIER: “YOUR ZIP CODE!”

Trembling, my pants now damp, I tell her. I don’t know why they need it, but what harm can it possibly do?

Then she asks if I have a discount card with the company. I don’t think I do, and it’s not worth riffling through my disorganized wallet to see if there’s a card in there. The item I’m buying only costs 79 cents (never you mind what it is) so why should I labor for a discount?

CASHIER: “Your phone number, please.”

ME: “Phone number? But I don’t really need —”

CASHIER: “YOUR PHONE NUMBER!”

So there I stand, that 79-cent item just beyond my grasp, muttering my phone number and assuming that the three snickering kids behind me will be delivering hilarious prank calls later. Meanwhile, the cashier is punching my data into some weird computer and frowning at the results.

“Hmm. Apparently you’re not on file with us. Would you like to register for a courtesy card?”

“A courtesy card? Honestly, I really don’t think that would —”

“YOU WILL REGISTER FOR A COURTESY CARD! HERE’S A PEN! DO IT NOW! YOU CAN SAVE UP TO 40 PERCENT ON SELECT ITEMS! SIGN IT! DON’T MAKE ME HURT YOU!”

I won’t lie to ya. I have openly wept in front of complete strangers during the grilling I get in checkout lines. If I were any kind of man, I would take their stupid courtesy card and tear it into tiny shreds right before their very eyes. But come on. Who’s going to do that and risk getting placed on some freaky pet-store blacklist and facing a bleak future where you can never buy kitty litter again?

There’s one hardware outfit in the area where the cashiers press so hard for my phone number, I’m pretty sure they’re hitting on me. Try to opt out of that part of the ritual and two burly men will wander up behind the cashier, arms folded, dark glasses gleaming. “You can save up to 40 percent on select items, yo. You know what we’re saying?”

If they’re not pushing the courtesy card on you, they’re asking you to donate to a cause. And don’t get me wrong here — I love donating to causes. You get to help out the less fortunate and sometimes you can even scrawl your name on a construction paper shamrock or heart and they will hang it in the store.

The problem comes when you start reading about the financial end of some of those causes, and how for every dollar donated, only three measly cents gets directed toward the cause itself — the remaining moolah goes to something called “administrative costs,” which almost certainly means “the executive director’s greens fees.”

Typically, it’s just easier to make your donation and go on your merry way, but every once in a while, you’d like to take a moral stand — “I won’t donate a single dime, sir or madam, until you can convince me that that dime will actually do some good instead of contributing to some fat cat’s six-figure salary.”

Good luck with that. When the cashier asks if you’d like to donate to the National Save a Fuzzy Kitten with Big Brown Eyes Fund, you’re going to fold like a road map. And if you DON’T fold like a road map right away, the heavyset woman behind you — who happens to be holding 100-pound bags of fuzzy kitten food UNDER EACH ARM — will begin to make noises that strongly suggest you should.

So, you donate a buck to the cause, provide your ZIP code and phone number, and fill out the courtesy card form because it can save you — say it with me — 40 percent on select items. You’re good to go, right?

Don’t be stupid. It’s interrogation time.

“Paper or plastic?”

“I was just going to carry —”

“Debit or credit?”

“What’s the diff — “

“Did you find everything you were looking for today?”

You could say something sassy like like, “No, ma’am. I was looking for love and you seem to be out of it,” but who’s going to brave that kind of backtalk when it could potentially add another three minutes to your checkout time and/or get you beaten with cat-food bags?

At one grocery chain — I won’t identify the chain, but it’s not Hannaford — they routinely play these clever games wherein you collect tiny cards with each purchase. Collect enough of these cards (I have enough currently to build a house) and you could win exciting prizes, such as fancy cookware I wouldn’t know how to use any more than I know how to drive a rocket ship.

Sometimes the cashier will simply hand you the cards when she forks over your receipt. Swell. But sometimes they ask you in a voice that’s a strange mix of enthusiasm and suicidal depression, “Are you playing our game?”

Say yes! Just say yes and take the cards! If you DON’T agree to take them, and announce that you’re not interested in the card game, you will set off a chain of events that will force you to spend the night in the produce aisle.

LADY IN LINE BEHIND YOU: “If he doesn’t want his cards, may I have them?”

CASHIER: “Um …”

For that kind of elaborate financial transaction, the cashier will have to check with the manager, who will have to be paged, which means your line isn’t going anywhere. And there you will stand, bright red with embarrassment, trying to ignore the impatient rumblings behind you. For dinner tomorrow night, you think, maybe you’ll just eat whatever you can find beneath the sofa cushions.

Or maybe you’ll just make better use of the self-checkout lines that are popping up all over the place. Yes, do it yourself, my friend. How hard can it be? Instead of complicated questions and commands from a real, live cashier, you can contend with complicated questions and demands from a computer-generated voice.

YOU: Swipe.

COMPUTER: “DO NOT REMOVE ITEMS FROM BAGGING AREA! WHY THE HELL DID YOU REMOVE YOUR ITEMS FROM THE BAGGING AREA?”

Seriously, man. What were you thinking?

* IMPORTANT NOTE: In spite of the annoying and ongoing card games, the clerks at the place that isn’t Hannaford actually keep their lines going at impressive speeds. They are a hardworking and well-mannered bunch that I think of as family. And with that in mind, may I please have my Vienna sausages so I can get out of here?

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. If you want his game cards from the supermarket, email your ZIP code, phone number and vital signs to mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.