Queue here please

Queues are a modern day creation of the devil and the western imperialist forces of the counter-revolutionary capitalist pigs. They are inevitable, yes, but that doesn't make them any less irritating, annoying, laborious or testing. They are also the perfect example of narrow mindedness. How many times have you turned up at, lets say a Computicket outlet, where, let's say Kurt Darren is performing in Brackenfell. You should already know before leaving home that if it's a Computciket in Bellville, Boksburg or any Afrikaner (or Kurt Darren fan) stronghold, the queue is going to snake on for miles, comprising hordes of mullet-sporting, Subaru-driving, Klipdrift-swilling, Mr Price clothes-wearing fans. So, in short the queue's going to be a balls up. Nothing new here, that's the norm.But you arrive at the tail end of these evil, spirit killing lines not quite certain if this is the correct line. Yet you still join it, hopeful it's the right one, like a sheep joining a line to get slaughtered all because, well, it's a sheep and that's what they do - follow other sheep. You queue for potentially hours, only to learn it's not the queue for Computicket, but the one for the Annual Grand National Potjiekos Competition. You kick yourself, swear at the heavens and the devil in equal amounts and proceed to fantasize about bloodshed. The other scenario involves technology conspiring with queues to ruin your mood. Computers crashing in times of seemingly never-ending queues are grounds for a declaration of war. The unbearably long queues of desperate Zimbabweans outside many Home Affairs offices last December led to me almost finding religion again, as I collapsed to my knees in a display of gratefulness that I wasn't one of them. I didn't laugh or tease at these poor souls for the fear of karma biting me in the rear. I knew full well I had an appointment with a bank and we all know about bank queues. They are usually riddled with 3 types of people: very, very old people, those who can't seem to speak any of our national languages and those who relish picking fights with bank tellers. The geriatrics are usually hard of hearing. Couple this with them trying to communicate with a teller from the other side of those bulletproof, missile repellent windows and you have nothing short of a screaming match. The debacles which result from foreigners (or those who just can't speak properly) in a line at a bank could equate a so-called international situation. Bank managers become the UN and intense negotiations sometimes ensue as they deal with annoyed foreigners who thought they were waiting in line for the toilet.
Then you have the fight-pickers. They love arguments, they can't get enough of them. From hapless supermarket cashiers to petrol pump attendants, they can't resist starting a fight, often for no reason at all. So in the context of a bank, there you stand waiting for the only tell on duty to calm down such a belligerent fool before serving you. Waiting in ques as busy restaurants make no sense at all. Unless you're in a line outside a UN feeding station in Sudan and haven't eaten in days, waiting to be fed in a queue at apopular eatery is just plain stupid.