Conveniently open to ridicule

Sometimes, not all the times, just sometimes, when I get done working a late night (such as after a Tampa Bay Lightning home game; did I mention that I cover the team for RawCharge.com?), I like to stop on the way home and get a little snack. I know it's not good to do that, but like I said I don't do it all the time and I just get a little something, like maybe a single donut and a milk, okay? That's it. Geez, get off me.
The place I like to, and by "like to" I mean it's "most convenient for me to", stop is a little convenience store in west Tampa. Not a 7-Eleven or Circle K or even a Racetrac. Nothing so fancy for me. I don't even know what the name of the place is. The only sign I've ever bothered to notice is the one that says "OPEN".
The guy that works the night shift has a nametag on his smock that says "SCOTTY", although I'm positive he's not Scottish or Irish or any other ethnicity that ends in "ish". Scotty hates me. I suspect he hates most people. I don't know why that is. I do know that in my case it's because this happens fairly often...

ME: Let's see what we have to eat tonight...
SCOTTY: (Sigh) Donuts, over here.
ME: I want to see what epicurean delights are available at this establishment.
SCOTTY: Why? You never order!
ME: I might be in the mood for something different; let me just inspect your little carnival of horrors here...
SCOTTY: (Sigh)
ME: What's that? That tub of orange-y brown meat? What's going on there? Do you smear that on bread or put it in a cone or what?
SCOTTY: It's barbecue. For sandwich.
ME: All right. I don't see any buns or bread so I'm assuming the treatment of that is even more horrible than what's in the display case, since you have it hidden. Pass. What's this next to the meat tub?
SCOTTY: Pizza.
ME: Pizza! Really! Well, I had a hunk of cardboard covered in flavorless red goo hidden under a mottled dome of rubber cement for lunch, so...
SCOTTY: Is cheese pizza! No cardboard, no cement! I make fresh! Delicious!
ME: Whoa! What the hell are these?
SCOTTY: Mini tacos. Four for dollar.
ME: They don't look like tacos.
SCOTTY: They are mini tacos.
ME: No, do you want to know what they look like?
SCOTTY: They look like mini tacos.
ME: Nope! They look like the Franklin Mint released a line of precious miniature replicas of celebrity vaginas and you have the whole set but they were damaged in a fire.
SCOTTY: They are mini tacos! Not war chinas!
ME: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! What did you say?!?
SCOTTY: Listen to me...!
ME: Wait! That one winked at me!
SCOTTY: What?!?
ME: That one right there! Joy Behar's melted toy war china just winked at me!
SCOTTY: Stop! Stop now!
ME: What can you tell me about these hot dogs?
SCOTTY: They are hot dogs. One niney nine.
ME: They look like they've been twirling around on that contraption since the Bush administration.
SCOTTY: Ha! Which one? [He started saying this with a tone of "GOTCHA!", as if he had defeated me by noting that there was more than one, a tone which very quickly faded as he realized that the most recent was still over four years ago, thus failing to deflect my insinuation that the hot doges were less-than-fresh]
ME: Overruled. Rhetorical.
SCOTTY: ...what?
ME: One donut, please. And a milk.
SCOTTY: (Sigh)