Your money's no good here

The routine seems the same. A human approaches the machine. The human inserts its shard of plastic. The human pokes in its number with one hand whilst shielding it with the other. The machine expels pieces of paper. The human places the pieces of paper somewhere on its being. The human experiences desire and exchanges the pieces of paper for beer and stuff. I follow the routine. It looks like money, it smells like money, it feels like money. I lick my finger and count it like I do when losing at Monopoly. It even sounds like money. The three notes I have sound like money. Why is it, then, that no one seems to want to exchange my 50 euro notes for beer and stuff. The surly poker face who will permit me to gaze at breasts for two hours (cleverly disguised as a Helmut Newton exhibition) tells me no. The weathered seaman who decides whether or not I recline on a boat for a leisurely three hours isn't impressed. My innocent pears and I are held hostage in the Penny Mart until I have scraped around in the bottom of my purse for more suitable denominations. The machine only ever gives me 50s. The machine doesn't respect my desires.