There's the occasional moment when, standing on a customer service line to redress a minor inconvenience that can be easily fixed in a matter of minutes, you scan the faces of the folks in front of you and confront a countenance that fills you with fear. You know the type: The sour expression, the aura of self-righteousness, the sheer unshakeable certainty that she's correct and the rest of the world is wrong - not just wrong, but so wrong that they need her immediate tutelage in rightness, and it doesn't matter how long it'll take, because, let's face it, she's got all day. And that's when you realize that you're going to be stuck listening to this woman, with her annoying outer-borough accent and her stolid immovability, for at least an hour, probably more, depending on what point the manager gets called in. It's at this point that you decide that the expired jar of pickles in your basket can't be any more unpleasant than spending a second more in the presence of this hatchet-faced hellion, and, sighing with defeat, trudge out of the store.


Anyway, we just figured out what Andrea Peyser's Post photo reminds us of.

This image was lost some time after publication, but you can still view it here.