Have you ever had one of those days when you feel like you’ve been hit by a stupid train?Yeah, well, stop bitching. Because it could be worse. I was just in line a Dunkin’ Donuts, not one of them fancy, order seventeen different things in one half of the coffee and six and a half in the other places.
I guess the snide dripping bitch in front of me was too busy polishing her labia to read that memo.
Everything she ordered was one at a time. The coffee. Get the cup. Look in it. Tell the lady behind the counter to pour ‘one tenth’ out of the cup and put some flavored hair gel in it or something. I’ll admit to glazing over and missing some of the vital things she was saying. But only because I had my own thoughts.
Such as wondering if I could kick her in the back hard enough to not only snap her spine in two but to cause her pancreas to squirt out of her ears.
My conclusion was, yes, I could and yes, that would be hilarious. Adding to the festivities, Pancrears would be a great name for a band.
But even with all that dripping out of my brain pan, I could still hear her shrill bite of a voice become even more agitated each time she sent the counter lady scrambling. You have to trust me here when I say the lady was servicing her better than her boyfriend if he found out her splooge was liquid diamonds.
Chris, you may be saying, aren’t there usually eighty-six people scurrying behind the counter at your neighborhood Dunkin’s? To that I would say, boy, are you a good counter! But, do you know what? The two working at the counter were both on errands for this woman.
She was ordering donuts, fucking donuts, one at a time! Aliens from Uranus who’ve never seen a donut would have an easier time making a decision. Of course, just ordering one at a time (half of them ended up being the same kind. I shit you not) wasn’t good enough for this life black hole. She sent some back!
Excuse me for a moment while I say,
“Whubida whubida whubida WHAT?!?!”
Sent. Them. Back.
Damn, her first born had better self abort and give itself another spin on the ‘Wheel of Potential Mommies!’ A cave dwelling, pedophiliac, cannibal would be a better option.
Finally, someone frees themselves and takes my order. Twenty seconds. No returns. As I’m picking up my coffee and turning to leave this woman far behind I hear her say,
“This coffee is cold. Pour me another one.”
I reach the door and look at the women behind the counter. They are paint-by-numbers picture still while this women begins to recite, in specific order with exact measurements, the extra special touches that will make her coffee the type people go out of their way to piss in.