This is my actual signature, not the scrawling of a deranged rooster.

I was grocery shopping when I ran into a new type of electronic credit card processing: instead of a flimsy scrap of paper, you now sign your name right into the screen. Finally, I thought, a better way to check our signatures!

Surely, the electronic credit card machine checks your signature against the one on file, then approves the purchase only if the signature is a match, right? If the signature is false, the touchpads will spray the thief with flourescent ink, activate a piercing siren, and then transform into an oversized boot which will kick the thief in the groin.

At least, that's how I thought it might work. I'm not that technical.


Experiment 1

Since my local supermarket had one of these electronic screens, it was the easiest place to try my experiments. First, I had to see if the cashier was even watching, so I signed it "My butt."



Now, any moron should have caught this. Though my butt is capable of amazing artistic achievements, such as music and dance, it simply cannot write. Also note the whimsical little pair of cartoon buttocks. It's unlikely that my butt could do caricatures.

Also, why would my butt sign "My Butt"? Clearly I'm forging on behalf of the butt. A real butt would have signed "MR. Butt." Or, in the case of my posterior, "DR. Butt," as it spent several years obtaining a higher degree.

I don't think the cashier even cared, though. She stared blankly ahead, even as I snapped multiple photos (it was tough to get a decent shot without the glare).

This was too easy. I vowed to make it harder.


Experiment 2

A few days later, I decided to sign the touchscreen as my friend, Winky Brown.



I thought Cyclops should sign using a lovely cursive script, which was another dead giveaway. I mean, that would just require incredible control over the anus, which fortunately I have.

This time, the chubby female cashier didn't even bat an eye. Maybe she's used to dealing with assholes.


Experiment 3

I'm no artist, so I had to bring along an illustration of the human digestive tract in order to try my next signature:



I found that the electronic touchscreens are not really suited for the kind of detailed line work that is required when drawing the intestines, so it kind of looks like a big scribbly mess -- but then again, so do the intestines.

You would think that a guy painstakingly copying an illustration of the Mud Zone for several minutes, then shooting up to a half-dozen photos of his masterpiece, would draw some attention. The cashier, a young black woman, pretended to be uninterested in what I was doing. I think she was afraid to say anything, or perhaps she was awed by my lifelike depiction of human innards. Either way: unacceptable.


Experiment 4

Finally, I wrote a song and drew it upon the touch screen with complete musical notation.



I will admit that "The Poo Song" came out a little messy, but that's only because I had been eating curry the night before. Drawing the musical staff just right was quite time-consuming, and I discovered an interesting fact: the touchscreens reset themselves after two minutes or so. This meant that just as I was snapping my first picture, the screen went blank and I had to start over again.

The people behind me in line were not amused, giving me the kind of looks normally reserved for elderly immigrants trying to pay for their groceries in Italian lira. The woman behind me, a good-looking professional in her 30's who was buying a granola bar and a bottle of water, stepped forward to see what I was drawing. "Oh my God," she said, rolling her eyes disgustedly.

"Apparently you're not a lover of the arts," I said, which made no sense.

As I started shooting pictures of my opus anus, the cashier -- a middle-aged Hispanic man -- finally said something. "You taking pictures?" he asked.

"Yep," I said, as if I had been hired to do so. "Sorry it's taking so long. Just a sec."

"You like this system?" he asked nervously, pointing to the touchscreen.

"It's great," I said. "Very secure."

I hit the OK button, grabbed my groceries, and hauled out of the store so that Powersuit could buy her Powerbar.


Thus: No alarms went off, no hidden nozzles sprayed mace in my eyes, no team of crypto-handwriting experts swooped down on vines from the ceiling. Apparently, the touchscreens protect your safety in one important way: they make you feel safer.

I decided that I had to go for broke -- in more ways than one.

Next: buying Best Buy on credit! >>