Monthly Archives: March 2007

Good Things Happen

I don’t think it should take longer to get a cup of coffee than your average sentence at the DMV. And I’m not talking about ‘Standinaweofmyimportance Fucks’ I’m talking the place where high school lunch ladies go to die.

Listen lady, whether you have 2 1/2 or 3 sugars is barely going to register on your ‘Closer To Death Clock’ so live dangerously and dump in all three you heaving, humping porkadelic and stop badgering the beleaguered cashier who just wants to move the line along but can’t because you have to sip it, get an ice cube because it’s too hot, pour in your 2 1/2 sugars while making a mess the likes of which haven’t been seen since Baby Jonathan puked up his spaghetti O’s and liver dinner, then stir it until the ice is completely melted, sip it again BEFORE asking if the shot of espresso you never asked for is there.

And then, with the cashier scurrying to accommodate your whims, you have the balls to turn around to the murderous crowd plotting behind and roll your eyes at the inefficiency of this person only trying to get you in and out as soon as possible to stem the blood from rolling out of her ears which is rendered even more impossible because now you want something that contains more sugar than I’ve had in a month but with instructions which I will quote here,
‘I only want it if it’s very, very, fresh.”

Lady, the only very, very, fresh thing in here was the managers last menstrual flow. Grab your clog, an extra cup because the cup the coffee resides in is far too hot for your delicate hands, rush to your car which is parked 8.3 centimeters from the door blocking movement for anyone else before we make a very, very fresh corpse.

When I finally got out of the coffee shop I ran into a guy who told me he’s planning on using an area in front of our building to sell his cheap trinkets of last-minute affection for the upcoming holidays. My boss let him set up over Valentine’s Day so he now believes he’s got squatters rights. And people wonder why I’m not nice to people. You do something once and they expect it all the time. Like feeding newborn babies.

He tells me he’s planning a big Easter and bigger Mother’s Day. I’m staring at him as he says he’ll give me things to make my shit gift purchasing even less expensive. The fact that my boss and I each declined his kind offer of a thallium filled Teddy Bear for Valentine’s Day must have slipped his deteriorating mind.

I wave him off telling him he’ll have to talk to my boss. He keeps pressing as if I haven’t just told him to leave me alone when I decide to ask him a question.

“What about Father’s Day?”

The guy looks at me as if he’s using his last brain cell to remember how many sugars he uses in his coffee before asking me the question I always receive at junctures like this,


“Father’s Day. All over the place during Mother’s Day, Valentines Day, Easter, you guys set up little crapfests to prey on idiots who forgot that all the real totems of love have been purchased by people who planned as much as a full day ahead. But, on Father’s Day, nothing.”

I can tell what the guy’s thinking. He’s thinking, “Why did I stop this guy?” Who says I have no success in my day? I’m not going to allow this guy’s lack of sight to stop my juggernaut of just get away from me.

“Why can’t you set up your little tent filled with Dad things? Beer, the cone of silence, remotes that can only be operated when engulfed in farts.” In case he didn’t grasp my concept I lean in and say, “Manly farts, not those tootie little chick ones!”

I’m standing in front of this man with a big smile on my face. When you’re trying to chase someone off you’ve got to sell the madness. I find when you lock on someone’s eyes with a big smile on your face after you’ve said things like this they are only planning their escape.

Playing right into my hands! It’s like shooting barrels in a barrel factory.

While this man is bidding his hasty retreat, Little Ms. Coffee comes barreling out of the store. I watch the near collision. As much as I wanted it to happen (just to notch my evil fun tally) I’m glad it didn’t. The counter people didn’t deserve another visit from her. The shitseller didn’t deserve a sock full of coffee. I didn’t deserve such a notch.

But the woman did deserve some karma. And Karm didn’t let me down.

While sipping her coffee, opening her cellphone and pulling away from the curb, a car turned out of the drive through. I’m glad to report there was no collusion but being able to witness her coffee flip into her steering wheel while her phone spun in the air and her expression expanded three feet from her skull, well, even if the shitseller guy doesn’t follow my solid business concept, it’s been a good day.

Hello, It’s Me!

I have a crazy woman in the office right now flipping out. You see, her daughter, another crazy bird, is supposed to be here but she is not. She wants to use our phone so, to limit my actual activity with this loon, I acquiesce.

From here I will type in the conversation I heard once she realized she was getting an answering machine. Before the recording part of the proceedings she said,

“Oh! Her answering machine! I’m getting her answering machine! I want to talk to her now! I want to know what’s going. . .” I must assume now that the answering machine beeped because she turned her attention from want to attention grabbing.

“. . .Sandra! Sandra! SANDRA! Pick up the phone! It’s Mom!” I’m assuming this isn’t the first time she’s left a message on her answering machine so now she’s just using her status as Mom as a power play.
“What’s going on!?! I want to know what’s going on! Right now! Where are you? Pick up the phone! Pick up the phone! Sandra! It’s Mom! Pick up the phone right now!”

It’s at this juncture in the conversation I think,

‘If I were on the other end of this message, I wouldn’t care if she was calling to tell me she was shitting diamonds and pissing Heineken, I’d never pick up that phone.’

“SANDRA! It’s Mom!” She adds in case you’ve forgotten the players. “I want you to pick up the phone right now!” She sighs loudly while banging the phone on her thigh.

“You are supposed to be here right now! Are you on your way!?! Pick up the phone right now!” The fact that Sandra could not accomplish both tasks simultaneously comes to mind. Mine not Mom’s.

“I’m here! Where are you!?! SANDRA! Pick up the phone! Why aren’t you picking up the phone!?! Sandra! It’s Mom! PICK . . . UP . . . THE . . . PHONE! I drove all the way from New Hampshire for you! The least you can do is pick up the phone!”

She pauses for a moment to give her daughter time to absorb the reason for this phone call, her mother’s current inhabitance, as a call to react. To the daughter this call must still a be little vague because, from the mother’s reaction, there was no response.

“SANDRA! I want to talk to you right now!”

By this time, even a dumbshit like me is starting to grasp the purpose of this call. Why, oh why, is Sandra having comprehension trouble? Maybe she’s in trouble? Kidnapped? Fallen and can’t drag herself to the phone! Maybe worse!

“Are you there!?!” The mother barks into the phone once more before giving up the ghost. Once again, she slumps with a sigh. She looks at me. I fight the urge to look back. But I do. For you. Being the inquisitive type I know you want to know the mother’s anguished expression at her daughters lack of response and possible death. She looks at me, nods her head solemnly and waves the phone in frantically in front of her face.

“I don’t know why I got such a fuck up for a daughter.”

I don’t know if the daughter knew her mother felt that way but I’m sure she does now.

My dear friend, for your future edification, when saying something that may be construed as, let’s just say, inflammatory about someone you’ve just left a message for, make sure to hang up the phone first.