"These cover it?" he grunted, dumping the spuds onto the conveyor belt. They rolled and tumbled, their earthy aroma mingling with the sterile scent of disinfectant and prole sweat.

I stared, momentarily speechless. The scanner beeped uselessly, its digital eye unable to comprehend this archaic form of currency. The line behind him grew restless, a chorus of sighs and impatient coughs.

"Sir," I began, my voice a strained whisper, "we don't accept... root vegetables as payment."

He blinked, his brow furrowed in confusion. "But... they're organic. Free range."

I could only shake my head, a wave of existential fatigue washing over me. The proles, their faces a mixture of amusement and bewilderment, began to offer suggestions. "Trade him for some kale chips!" one shouted. "Maybe he has Bitcoin on his phone!" another chimed in.

I closed my eyes, picturing the headlines: "Grocery Store Heist Foiled by Sack of Potatoes." "Man Attempts to Pay with Produce, Chaos Ensues." The absurdity of it all was almost unbearable.

Yes, friend. This is fine.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5635949&forum_id=2:#48349736)