Coffee and Inspiration

Well that’s it. It’s Friday and we are all but done for the year. Yes indeedy the Boss has agreed to my pleadings and we are shutting the Coffee House until the New Year. Woohoo I am so going to spend the rest of the year tucked up in the arms of Bacchus. Before I go I thought that I would leave you with an inspirational story. I don’t do inspiration myself so I stole this one from Google Answers. For those of you who have never heard of GA as it was known, you missed a rare treat. GA was staffed by 500 researchers who all freelanced. You could ask a question and set your price from $2 to $200. You only paid when your question was answered and Google took a 25% commission on the deal. I used the service myself several times but I (and I suspect many thousands of others) mainly read the questions and answers as a lunchtime recreational 30 minutes. You will have noticed that I am using the past tense and this is because Google pulled the plug at the end of November. I guess that now they are a publicly traded company GA wasn’t making the shareholders enough profit so off it went. This is the unacceptable face of capitalism and it leaves me shaking a fist whilst berating a system that values profit over art. Apparently GA was pulled as answers at Yahoo was more popular, and free. Sadly for anyone with an IQ in double digits Yahoo is for people who a) want to know the latest on Kevin and Britney and b) will accept an answer that looks like “Fed – Ex, OMG LOLOLOLOL. BRB,” written by an 8 year old. I would call on my two readers to boycott Google in protest but that would be a touch hypocritical as Google is hosting this blog.

Anyway here is the story. Some weeks ago as GA was in its death throws someone asked a particular researcher by the name of Tutuzdad to recall a special moment in his life. This is his story, it goes on a bit but it is worth it. Have a nice read and I will see yawls next year.

TCB

It seems we intentionally avoid becoming person in order to preserve the anonymity we've become comfortable with. However, at your request, for you and only you will I bend the rules just this once and share something personal.

The most special thing that ever happened to me was a serendipitous brush with greatness that later proved to be especially enlightening and meaningful to me, though neither of us realized it at the time (and one of us probably NEVER realized it). Here goes: Years ago, back when I was a young police officer working in a cityheavily dependent upon the entertainment industry, I occasionally worked off duty jobs to make ends meet providing personal protection for celebrities, politicians or whoever thought they needed those kinds of services. There were two types of services, bodyguard work and security work. The security work was always the easiest because it didn’t involve any contact with the celebrity. It was mostly guarding doors, buses, back stage areas, etc. The bodyguard work, on the other hand, always required me to work closely with the person and they were almost ALWAYS so full of themselves that the working conditions were often unbearably ungrateful and quite miserable. I was never very start-struck and didn’t consider rubbing elbows with famous people much of a bonus, but the money was good and I needed it so I usually did just took whatever misery they dished out for the pay they offered. On one instance I accepted a job protecting a young man named Troyal, a little known singer from who-knows-where Okalahoma with a not-yet-spectacular musical career. Since I had some experience with these kinds of people I wasn’t particularly looking forward to this assignment. My job was to stay with him for the 12 hours or so that he would be here. I’d eat every meal with him, be on his bus with him, in his dressing room and even on stage with him – just out of view behind a narrow curtain. To be required to spend this much time with a “celebrity” was unprecedented and it hadn’t even started yet before I began dreading every minute of it. When he showed up in his bus around noon that day he didn’t arrive like most celebrities did. His unmarked bus stopped right in front of the concert venue. The door to the bus opened up and out he came – he was wearing sweat pants, a baseball cap and was in his sock feet. He sat down on the bottom step and laced up his dirty tennis shoes. His music wasn’t my cup of tea so I only vaguely recognized him but he went to the trouble to introduce himself to me anyway. He shook my hand and smiled and I remember thinking that HE is probably the only one here who has no idea who HE is. Throughout the afternoon and into the evening I had a lot of time to talk to this young man. He told me a few things about himself but mostly we talked about what he wanted to talk about – me. He asked me question after question about my life, my job, my family and he looked right into my face when I answered and spoke. He genuinely wanted to know more and he absorbed every single word. About himself? Well, he said that he attended Oklahoma State University and all he ever wanted to do was play sports - to throw the javelin or play major league baseball. In fact, until this music thing came along his sports had been the only time he had ever performed publicly in his life. He said he had to take some kind of college courses in order to be able to continue playing sports so he majored in Marketing. He never intended to make commercials or work in the advertising world but he thought it would be nice to have something to fall back on since (unless you plan to become a Zulu warrior or something) there’s really not much call for professional javelin throwers in this world. He said he worked his way through college and paid his tuition by singing at night wherever people would pay him to do it and that, of course, is how he was discovered. He gave up his dream of becoming a famous sports figure – something that he had always hoped and prayed for - and it ultimately led to something even bigger than he originally dreamed. I noticed something else about this young man with the funny name too. He REALLY DID pray. He prayed humbly and quietly at each of our meals saying only “Amen” out loud. Several times he mentioned that he used to pray for “things”, and each time he said that he winked. I didn’tunderstand what that meant until just before the show. On stage, just before the curtain opened, he joined hands with all his band members and roadies and they prayed out loud. He didn’t ask for God to let him put on a good show, or to make him a famous baseball player and he didn’t ask God to help him have a successful performance. Instead, he gave thanks for what God had ALREADY blessed him with and he promised God he’s repay him somehow if he could. He did put on a fantastic show that night and after the end of the show we sat on his bus and chatted for long time, and we talked even more out on the parking lot while he signed autographs for everyone who asked until the wee hours of the morning. I caught myself feeling silly for standing there alone in the fog under a street light at 4 o’clock in the morning waving at the back of this guy’s bus as drove out of my life the same unimposing way it drove in. Some years later this same guy made quite a name for himself and one of his songs in particular stuck with me because, when it first came out, I already knew (and had for years) the story behind it. In the song he sings: “Some of God’s greatest gifts are unanswered prayers”.Even at this young age, the guy with the funny name, Troyal - Garth -Brooks, understood something most of us never figure out…the value of an unanswered prayer. Way back then he had already learned that what we DON’T have can sometimes play an even greater role in what kind of people we become than what we DO have -- and to be careful what you ask for because you MIGHT just get it. I don’t think either one of us really knew who “Garth Brooks” was before that night and I’ve no doubt that he forgot me before the week was out. Years have passed and I’ve never forgotten him though; not Garth Brooks the famous music star, but a happy, bright-eyed,enthusiastic kid in sock feet who stumbled down out of that bus in the middle of Nowhere, USA to impart his wisdom to a guy who was certain he already knew everything. I needed a good dose of that sort of wisdom at that point in my life. I never got to tell him how much I appreciated him for setting me straight – whether he ever knew he did it or not. The fact that he was a celebrity had nothing to do with it (because in his mind he wasn’t).A beggar on the street with the same wisdom could have achieved the same effect. For me, it was literally A STRANGER IN THE NIGHT who ended up being one of the finest people I ever had the good fortune to meet. And I’m so grateful that I did. Suffice it to say that as “nice” things go this was, without question, one of the most memorable things that ever happened to “me”. But then again, there are lots of wise strangers in this world – so there’s no telling who else we just might meet out there next.

Probably not what you had expected (no saved babies or burning buildings) but I hope my story was sufficient to satisfy your curiosity. ;)

best regards;tutuzdad-ga

Coffee and Wise Men

We were out on our travels last night and I got a little lost. Of course I am not going to stop to ask directions in Bigtown as it is populated exclusively by prostitutes, pimps and drug dealers. In consequence we were late for a nice dinner and the Boss was more than tetchy. She pointed out that if the three wise men were three wise women then ;
They would have asked directions ...arrived on time …helped deliver the baby …cleaned the stable …brought practical gifts …and made a casserole.

I felt obliged to point out that if the three wise men were three wise women then as they left you would have heard;

"Did you see the sandals Mary was wearing with that gown?"

"Can you believe that they let all of those disgusting animals in there!"

"And that donkey they are riding has seen better days too!"

"I heard that Joseph isn't even working right now!"

"Want to bet on how long it will take before you get your casserole dish back?"

"That baby doesn't look anything like Joseph!"

"Virgin, my arse! I knew her in high school!"

The rest of the evening got very ugly and it’s getting hard to type with broken fingers.

Coffee and Queens

As you will remember from my previous tales we had more than our fair share of difficulties in getting an Internet service into the shop. Now we have two (and if you don’t know why then you really should have paid more attention). Actually before I continue this hugely interesting story allow me to digress slightly. Do you recall the Smalltown IP provider employee that was happy to stab his employer in the back? Well he was in again and this time he let it drop that although he can have free cable he uses a satellite service, as his company does not supply all the channels that he wants, what a glowing endorsement. It also transpires that I was spot on in my prediction that they will soon be gone. In Smalltown, and maybe Kissbotty county, another company is now running the show. I know this because a guy with a laptop turned up having seen our WiFi sign. “Thank God you have the Internet “ he said “Those worthless bastards at Suddendeath have turned me off for a week whilst they improve the service. (Two points here; isn’t turning off the service to improve the service an oxymoron? Secondly, he used the name Suddendeath, Smalltownonians might get a chuckle out of this as they will recognize the name of the new cowboys). Anyway on with the tale.

To be brutally honest the WiFi thing has not really taken off as I had hoped. When I set out with this I imagined hordes of Smalltown’s intelligencia flocking to my door with laptops akimbo whilst sucking on Lattes. Some years ago Kissbotty county was a very backward backwater but these days especially here in Smalltown the folks are pretty savvy so it has all been a touch disappointing. When folks do pull out a laptop my insatiable curiosity is always piqued and having to give them the password is my in to having a nose at what’s going on. Three days ago a couple of guys walk in and within minutes it was clear that they were a couple. Now let me say at the outset that I have no problems with the batty boys. I find them generally smart, funny and polite. They also have a waspish sense of humor. So you now know why I need to protect my anonymity, for here in Kissbotty, admitting to liking homos is worse than being a pinko-left wing- commie- liberal dem-E-crat. If the locals catch me I will be tarred and feathered, tie to a rail and dragged all the way to Massachusetts. When you stop to think about it, isn’t homophobia all rather pointless. I mean I can understand many fears, I am not too keen on snakes myself, but to be afraid of botty bandits strikes me as being all rather absurd.

The lads sat in the corner and kept themselves to themselves for the next six hours and that was just fine by me, they amassed a $20 tab and left a $6 tip. The next day was a repeat performance and so was the third day. It turns out that one of them is writing a technical manual and is way behind, he actually said that the WiFi was a godsend for him. By now we are on first name terms so I enquire (with some hope I confess) if they are locals. Sadly for me they are from San Francisco (the homo capital of the World) and are just visiting family here in Kissbotty and there goes my hopes of being the Mecca of Smalltown. Looks like another case of what the good Lord giveth……

Still it was fun whilst it lasted lads and I wish you a safe journey home.

Happy Christmas to all the stately homos of America
TCB

Coffee and Chicken

The boss’s sandwiches are getting a bit of a reputation, so much so that people are actually buying the filling by the pound and making their own sandwiches. Today a lady came in to buy 2 pounds of chicken. Whilst the boss was making it up she asked me how we prepared the chicken.
“Well actually Madam” I replied, “ We don’t. I just tell him that he is about to die”

The Bitch's other Christmas

As a joke, my brother used to hang a pair of panty hose over his fireplace before Christmas. He said all he wanted was for Santa to fill them. What they say about Santa checking the list twice must be true, because every Christmas morning, although Keith's kids stockings were overflowed, his poor panty hose hung sadly empty. One year I decided to make his dream come true. I put on sunglasses and went in search of an inflatable love doll. Of course, they don't sell those things in Virginia. I had to cross the state line and find an adult bookstore in North Carolina. If you've never been in an X-rated store, don't go. You'll only confuse yourself. I was there almost three hours saying things like, "What does this do?", "You're kidding me!", "Who owns that?" Finally I made it to the inflatable doll section. I wanted to buy a standard, uncomplicated doll suitable for a night of romance that could also substitute as a passenger in my car so I could use the car pool lane. Finding what I wanted was difficult as love dolls come in many models. I figured the "vibro-motion" was a feature my brother could live without so I settled for Lovable Louise. She also was at the bottom of the price scale. To call Louise a "doll" took a huge leap of imagination.On Christmas Eve, with the help of an old bicycle pump, Louise came to life. My sister-in-law was in on the plan and left the front door unlocked. In the wee hours of the morning long after Santa had come and gone I snuck into the house and filled the dangling panty hose with Louise's pliant legs and bottom. Then I let myself out, went home, and giggled like a schoolgirl for hours.The next morning Keith called to say that Santa had been to his house and left a present that made him very happy but the dog was confused. The dog would bark and bark. I suggested he purchase an inflatable Lassie. We also agreed that Louise should remain in her panty hose so the rest of the family could admire her when they came for the traditional dinner. It seemed like a great idea, except we forgot Grandma and Grandpa would be there.My grandmother noticed Louise the moment she walked in the door. "What the hell is that?" she asked." It's a doll." replied my brother. "Who would play with something like that?" she replied "And where are her clothes?" "Boy that turkey sure smells nice, Gran," Keith said, trying to steer her into the dinning room. But Granny was relentless. My grandfather, a delightful old man with poor eyesight, sidled up to me and said, "Hey who's the naked gal by the fire place?" I told him she was Keith's friend. A few minutes later I noticed Grandpa by the mantel talking to Louise. Not just talking, but actually flirting. It was then that we realized this might be Grandpa's last Christmas at home.Dinner went well. We made the usual small talk when suddenly Louise made a noise that sounded a lot like my father in the morning. She then lurched from the panty hose, flew around the room twice and fell in a heap in front of the sofa. The cat shat itself, I passed cranberry sauce through my nose, and Grandpa ran across the room, fell to his knees, and began administering mouth to mouth. My brother wet his pants and Granny threw down her napkin, stomped out of the room, and sat in the car. It was indeed a Christmas to treasure. Later we discovered the cause of Louise's collapse as she had suffered from a hot ember to the back of her thigh. Thanks to duct tape we restored her to perfect health and Louise went on to star at several bachelor parties. I think Grandpa still calls her whenever he can get out of the house...

Coffee and the Christmas Upchuck

Once again the lack of physically handicapped or cerebrally challenged clients has forced me to drag up yet another true story from the annals (or is it anus?) of the Bitch's family Christmases.

FOTL1 has always had a strange fascination with bodily functions. As a baby she excreted on me innumerable times and quite frankly we both know she did it deliberately. One Christmas Eve, several years ago, she came toddling into the living room looking decidedly iffy, she met me head on and said "Daddy I think I'm going to be ......", and then proceeded to blow chunks in a manner usually reserved for people accustomed to consuming 14 pints of Guinness and a large enchilada .... For some reason that I still do not understand, I held out both hands, cupped in such a fashion as to catch the aforementioned liquid-laugh, little realizing the phenomenal capacity of vomit that one so small can produce. Having reached my overflow limit in a little over a second, I understood the futility of my actions, and deciding there probably wasn't a vessel in the house big enough to contain the tide of puke emitting from FOTL1, I decided to abandon my original plan, and get her to the bathroom as fast as was possible. Dumping the vomit I'd already collected onto the floor (this didn't seem to present a major problem, as we'd only recently had all the carpets removed and laminate flooring put down throughout the whole house, a fact for which at this precise moment I was supremely grateful), I grabbed my infant vomit-maestro, turned her around (let's face it, as much as I love it, I don't want it putting a rainbow yawn in my face), and headed off for the bathroom.

And this was my undoing....

To get to the bathroom, I had to pass from the living room, through the hall, across the dining room, into the inner hall, and thence into the bog. We made it as far as the dining room before she upchucked in an even more spectacular fashion than previously. Unfortunately, as in order to save time I didn’t turn on the lights, I wasn't aware of this fact until my bare feet made contact with it. (Did I mention the fact we'd recently had laminate flooring laid)?

The resulting fall would have looked unbelievable even by cartoon standards. There was the running on the spot sequence - featured highly in Scooby Doo episodes where Shaggy tries to leg it but never seems to get anywhere - followed by the slow motion descent straight onto my backside whilst yelling "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo......!" in perfect synchronisation.
Somehow, throughout all this, I managed not to drop the author of my misfortune, and turned her round to make sure that she was all right. With hindsight, this wasn't one of my better ideas, yep, she barfed all over me. The attempt to get up, and distance myself as far as was humanly possible from this waking nightmare, must have looked like an old Keystone Cops episode as I slid this way and that but couldn't find any purchase on what had now become a Technicolor skating rink.
Fortunately, the Boss was on hand to wet herself laughing at my dilemma. Did she help? Did she buggery. She stood there shaking and clutching her sides as the tears streamed down her face, whilst I lay sprawled in the stuff bad dreams are made of, praying for God to inflict a prolapsed uterus upon her.

I can look back and laugh about it now, and my psychiatrist has told me that my bedwetting should stop within a year or two.

TCB

Coffee calling Austin

The Coffee and Mystery thing has still not been resolved and quite frankly that is disturbing me somewhat. I am probably more disturbed by the fact that this is disturbing me than the fact that it is disturbing me, and that is the definition of paranoia. So just because I can, and I am still bored witless I shall, like a small kid poking a frog, poke away and see if I get a reaction. I know I shouldn’t but hey this is life in the fast lane. I used to have a reader, a sweet little girly from Canada, whom I enraged so much, with this entry, that not only did she stop reading this blog, she also stopped blogging herself. Such is the power of the Bitch. Still never one to learn a lesson here we go again.

Dear Austin,

It’s been a while, how are you? I still don’t know that much about you and whilst you might think that is a good thing I confess that it is a source of frustration to me. I did notice that the hits from Austin have moved from the server at the University to swbell. Does this mean that in a fit of conscience you decided to stop surfing at school and do some work? Of course it could just mean that you live off campus. I am also getting some hits from Plano, Texas and as I cannot believe that there are two sad lonely people in Texas that read this drivel, I assume that you have gone home for the holidays. Interestingly enough I also see hits from College Station Texas. This is very confusing as I think that we can all agree that a sentence that includes Texas and college has to be an oxymoron. OK, I know that I should not rag on at Texas. I only do it as I spent way too long in El Paso and I can tell you if God wanted to give the world an enema he would plunge the nozzle into El Paso. The happiest sight I ever saw was the Welcome to El Paso sign (in my rearview mirror).
You have also been remarkably reticent regarding your gender and I think I know why. You are either a male who confesses to watching Kelly Clarkson videos, in which case you are clearly driving on the other side of the road. Or you are a female who did not immediately accept the bitch’s invitation to bump uglies, in which case you are clearly driving on the other side of the road. As further proof I submit the fact that your comment was brought to us by the letter L. Does this stand for the Isle of Lesbos?

Well enough of this, I am off to increase my endomorphines for which purposes the steam wand and my bum cheeks have a pressing appointment.

Happy Christmas to Texans everywhere.
TCB

Coffee and the list

TGIF. What a week. I cannot remember the last time I was so bored. I tell you kiddies absolutely nothing has happened all this week; it has to all intents and purposes been like spending a lifetime in El Paso. I have not fired up a neuron for days, my little synaptic bridges are healing over and I am suffering from restless brain syndrome. I would like to be able to tell you that the lack of blogging has been caused by a lack of interesting customers to take the rise out of but the truth is that the lack of blogging has been caused by a lack of customers. This place really is a sensory deprivation chamber; perhaps the CIA should bring some of their terrorists in here. I guarantee that within hours they will be ratting out their own mothers.

So just to pass the time the Boss and I decided to draw up our “To Do” lists. This is not a list of jobs but rather a list of people that we would like to enjoy carnal knowledge of. After much consideration I whittled my list down to 243, which is just about every woman that has walked through the Coffee House door. It also included the Smalltown transsexual who I believe has not yet completed its surgical reassignment. (Be nice people she-males need love too). In contrast the Boss’s list comprised of just two people. TWO! Good grief, there you have it, the difference between men and women. You ladies are just so picky. Give it up girls, you know it makes sense.

Much later we both noticed that neither of us appeared on the other’s list, so it looks like the next step is the divorce court, and I thought that the week could not get worse.

Actually let me state publicly that I will never divorce the Boss. I love my truck far too much for that.

Coffee and Culture

The boss and I have just had our yearly dose of culture and how jolly it all was. We went to see the Bigtown Symphony and assorted choirs perform one of those holiday spectacular things. The show really was incredible value for money (mainly as the tickets had been given to us by one of our customers (I think she wants me)). We kicked off with an introduction from Dick and Ed the unbearably perky gay bar loiterers that “present” the morning show on Kissbotty Radio (home to all the hits). These are the unfeeling bastards that have been assailing me with 24/7 carols since November. I can’t tell you how much my trigger finger was itching when they started. Sadly the boss had made me leave Mr. Glock at home otherwise I might now be incarcerated in the Smalltown lock up, which as you know involves three hots and a cot followed by a spot of light fetching and carrying whilst enjoying the flirtatious company of the many, many nubile young ladies that flaunt their feminine charms here in Smalltown. Whatever, on with the show.

Clearly some of these musicians get paid more than others, I am sure that the lead violin is getting a bigger suck of the pineapple than the retard that hits the triangle, but I am guessing that the also rans that no one loves (third oboe, trombone and the like) all get about the same wedge. So my attention was drawn to the guy with the kettledrums. During the tune up time, you know that bit when the whole orchestra sounds like a feral cat with its testes caught in a rat trap, he was banging away nineteen to the dozen, he was rolling across all five drums, crossing his arms and having a grand old time. And that was it. For the rest of the evening he did absolutely nothing except at the end of every movement (or whatever it is called) when he would look up at the conductor and bang a drum in a most inaudible manner. What he did do, however, was to make himself look busy (and let me tell you kiddies, the secret of success is to look busy. It doesn’t matter if you run GE or a Coffee House, never let the boss see you resting). So during the long, long minutes of inactivity he would be running his hands over the drums, polishing his sticks or pretending to read the music. Not that he had me fooled. I just knew that buried deep in the score was a dog-eared and much used copy of the 1996 edition of Cheeks Apart Plus. Still give the man his due, at the end of every piece he would awaken from his self-induced masturbatory fantasy, look up at the maestro and as the baton fell, hit one of his drums. He really was a fine example to lead swingers everywhere and I take my hat off to him.

If I knew anything about music I would write the Bitches 5th Symphony for the Kettle Drums in G Major (whatever that means) and really make the fat smug bastard sweat. Ten minutes on all five drums and right at the end the baton would fall on the lead violin who would draw her bow across the fiddle for 1 second that no one could hear.

Finally it turns out that the boss knows quite a lot about music. Just the other day she mentioned that she was thinking of getting me orchestrated. Bless her.

Bangin’ the drum
TCB

Coffee and Irony

Those of you who have faithfully followed my scribblings during the last few months will doubtless see the delicious irony of this blog. If you have just delved into my life recently then you probably need to read this first and then come back and read this.

I was sitting back partaking of a well deserved cup of Darjeeling grown on the south side of the slope at an altitude of over 4000 feet and plucked by dusky virgins, when my eye was caught by the sight of a Smalltown cable provider truck parked outside. The driver spent some considerable time reading his paper and adjusting the lie of his woefully inadequate genitalia before he crossed the road and came into the shop. He had spotted the Internet hotspot sign and took it upon himself to see if we were using his company. You can imagine how sweet it was to unload on him and let him know what a completely and utterly useless bunch of salad tossers his company is when it comes to selling a service. The bizarre thing was that he actually agreed with me. It turns out that the one person that hated his company more than I was he. Then he starts on a lecture on how I should have the wireless encrypted. (As you will doubtless realize, in my previous existence I did all this nonsense in my sleep, so this clown is now seriously irritating me). The fact that it is already encrypted did not stop his lecture so I switched off for a while, only to woken when he asked if he could bring his laptop into the shop to pick up some emails. Of course I reply but to get the free service you have to be a customer so what would you like to buy? He bought a small coffee (cheap bastard) and powered up. After about 10 minutes he started to whine on about how he couldn’t get on line. It turns out that his company would only give them Windows 2000 (cheap bastards) and Windows 2000 is a royal pain to wireless up. Of course you will understand that this is nothing that the Bitch can’t do and indeed I have hooked up a few Smalltownians with 2000 but I wasn’t about to help his joker. Eventually he slithered off and I was once again free to enjoy my green leaf tea. I expect that he was only trying to hook up to test the speed of my ISP, he had already boasted that his company could provide 3Mbits. Of course 3 Mbits is only available if you hold the CEO’s kids hostage until they sell you a service. I can’t help but to think that having to beg a company to sell you a service and for that company to employ staff that clearly hates them is not a good indicator of the survivability of the company. I give them 6 months max before they go belly up.

Coffee Bitch 1 Worthless Knuckle Shufflers 0

The Bitch gives Thanks

Well it is that time of the year when we are inundated with cards from our fellow traders here in Smalltown. I suppose that I should reciprocate but to be quite frank it seems like a lot of money that would be better spent on the Bitch so I think I will just use this blog as an e Christmas card. You might be surprised to discover how many people it takes to run a small Coffee House, so let me first of all say thanks to;

Our Legal Advisor, Gil T. Azell

Our Russian Accounts Payable Clerk, Dasha Chekov

Our Fuel Delivery Service, Amanda Livering Cole

My Assertiveness Coach, Lois Steam

Our Transport Manager, Orson Buggy

Our British Cutlery Advisor, Sir Irving Spoon

Computer Hardware Specialist, C. Colin Backslash

Our Soup Chef, Emile Iniself

Our Vietnamese Valet, Lao Tse Parker

Our Summer Intern, Gladys Overnow

The Boss’s Bikini Waxer, Harry Mouval

Her Self Defense Instructor, Nina Cahones

Safety Officers, Mort & Fay Tality

Lease Manager, Condoleeza B. Broken

Our Discount Plan Manager, Wendy Pigsfly

Our IT Manager, Cy Bernett

My Fashion Consultant, Natalie Attired

My Massage Advisor, Ophelia Self

My fitness instructor, Hugh Jazz

And of course I must thank our regular patrons;

Smalltown’s Band Leader, Juan Anatou

Smalltown’s Scout Leader, Lawson D Woods

A visiting Swedish Attorney, Bjorn Lyar

Smalltown’s Art Critic, Phyllis Stien

Her Assistant, Dot Snice

Smalltown’s Dentist, Perry O’Dontal

His Dental Hygienist, Ginger Vitis

Not forgetting

Bertie Grabbitt, (Sue, Grabbitt and Runne Attorneys at Law)

Simon (Simple) Hemmer, (Hemmer, Rhoyd and Piles, Attorneys)

and

Our Chief Justice, Judge Mental

Happy Christmas one and all

TCB

Coffee and the Jury

Today we salute the villains of Kissbotty County. I am not talking about the poachers, drunk drivers and wifebeaters, I am talking of the serious scumbags. Why would I do such a thing you ask? Well it is simple. A serious miscreant gets a jury trial and a jury trial needs a jury and a jury needs a lunch, are you catching my drift? Oh how we love a jury trial. We get a call midmorning when we are quiet and we (actually truth be known, the Boss) potters around at her own pace gently making 12 gourmet lunches. No stress and no pressure. Between 12:30 and 1:00 the lunches get collected and we are done. Then we get the lawyers in for their lunch. Everyone is in fine fettle as they are all dining on Virginia’s dime (invariably the defense is publicly appointed) and apparently Virginia is more than generous with my tax dollars. Now is this Reagan-omics or is it Thatcherism? Whatever, I just love this trickle down economy. There is nothing like an expense account to promote generous tipping.

Yesterday we got the call, oh deep joy. My role in this epic is to watch the boss work and watching is where I am a Viking. So the lunches are made and ready for collection when in walks one of my prettiest and charming customers. Whilst we are chatting, in walk two pleasant enough but slightly out of place characters. They start to chat to pretty and charming like old friends and to be brutally honest they make an odd trio. Well it turns out that they have come to collect the lunches, which is odd because they surely don’t look like bailiffs to me. After they have gone I ask “P and C” if they are friends. Oh no she replies they are trustees from the jail. WTF! I swear to God this place is like a holiday camp. A little light work, a spot of fetching and carrying and three hots and a cot. (This is a local expression for three hot meals and a bed, which is probably more than these minor league scumbags get at home). These people have a better life than I do. I am definitely going to moon the sheriff this winter even if it just keeps my home heating bill down.

As a rider to this tale, the trial judge was so impressed with the jury lunches that he came in with his good lady. Ever one to make a customer feel at home, I could not help but to mention that had you people not rebelled against your King then;

He would be wearing a red robe trimmed with ermine
He would be wearing a fetching horsehair wig
I would be addressing him as “My Lord”
I would be addressing his wife as “Milady”

But you people knew best. His wife looked quite wistful, I am guessing she quite liked the idea of being a lady.

Merry Christmas scumbags and villains one and all
TCB

Coffee and the Fat Man

Even when I was quite young it concerned me that Santa was supposed to visit every house in the world and deliver presents to all the boys and girls on Christmas night. To be frank this still concerns me so I thought I should do a little research and see if I can use all I have learned over the years to come to a sensible conclusion. I have deduced that;

1) No known species of reindeer can fly. BUT there are 300,000 species of living organisms yet to be classified, and while most of these are insects and germs, this does not COMPLETELY rule out flying reindeer, which only Santa has ever seen.

2) There are 2 billion children (persons under 18) in the world. BUT since Santa doesn't (appear) to handle the Muslim, Hindu, Jewish and Buddhist children, that reduces the workload to 15% of the total - 378 million according to Population Reference Bureau. At an average (census) rate of 3.5 children per household, that's 91.8 million homes. One presumes there's at least one good child in each (although I can’t see why Santa would bother with those little hellions, FOTL1 and FOTL2)

3) Santa has 31 hours of Christmas to work with, (thanks to the different time zones and the rotation of the earth), assuming he travels east to west (which seems logical). This works out to 822.6 visits per second. This is to say that for each Christian household with good children, Santa has 1/1000th of a second to park, hop out of the sleigh, jump down the chimney, fill the stockings, distribute the remaining presents under the tree, eat whatever snacks have been left, get back up the chimney, get back into the sleigh and move on to the next house. Assuming that each of these 91.8 million stops are evenly distributed around the earth (which, of course, we know to be false but for the purposes of our calculations we will accept), we are now talking about .78 miles per household, a total trip of 75-1/2 million miles, not counting stops to do what most of us must do at least once every 31 hours, plus feeding and etc. This means that Santa's sleigh is moving at 650 miles per second, 3,000 times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison, the fastest man- made vehicle on earth, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a poky 27.4 miles per second - a conventional reindeer can run, tops, 15 miles per hour.

4) The payload on the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming that each child gets nothing more than a medium-sized present (say 2 pounds), the sleigh is carrying 321,300 tons, not counting Santa, who is invariably described as overweight. On land, conventional reindeer can pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting that "flying reindeer" (see point #1) could pull TEN TIMES the normal amount; we cannot do the job with eight, or even nine. We need 214,200 reindeer. This increases the payload - not even counting the weight of the sleigh - to 353,430 tons. Again, for comparison - this is four times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth.

5) 353,000 tons travelling at 650 miles per second creates enormous air resistance - this will heat the reindeer up in the same fashion as spacecrafts re-entering the earth's atmosphere. The lead pair of reindeer will absorb 14.3 QUINTILLION joules of energy per second, each. In short, they will burst into flame almost instantaneously, exposing the reindeer behind them, and create deafening sonic booms in their wake. The entire reindeer team will be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second. Santa, meanwhile, will be subjected to centrifugal forces 17,500.06 times greater than gravity. A 300-pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be pinned to the back of his sleigh by 4,315,015 pounds of force.

In conclusion - If Santa ever DID deliver presents on Christmas Eve, the little fat git is dead now.

Happy Christmas

TCB

PS For those of you who enjoyed those carols for the psychiatrically challenged ;

Agoraphobia ---I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day But Wouldn't Leave My House.
Senile Dementia ---Walking in a Winter Wonderland Miles From My House In My Slippers and Robe.
Oppositional Defiant Disorder ---I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus So I Burned Down the House
Social Anxiety Disorder ---Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas While I Sit Here and Hyperventilate.
Amnesia ---I Don't Know if I'll be Home for Christmas.

Coffee and Christmas Wishes

Dear Customers,

We would like to wish you a Merry Christmas or Season’s Greetings if you prefer. Sadly in these politically correct times we thought that we had better take the advice of Sue, Grabbitt and Runne Attorneys at Law. Therefore;

Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit, our best wishes for an environmentally-conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender-neutral, celebration of the winter/summer solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of your choice, or secular practice of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all AND a fiscally-successful, personally-fulfilled and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar for 2006, but not without due respect for the calendars of your choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped make our society great (not to imply that our society is necessarily greater than any other society) and without regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith, choice of computer platform, or sexual preference of the wishee.By accepting this greeting you are accepting these terms. This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely transferable with no alteration to the original greeting. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for himself or others and is void where prohibited by law and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher.This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one year, or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting (whichever comes first) and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.
Happy holidays!


Here is the Bitch’s gift to you, some of my favorite Christmas one-liners

I bought my Mother a wooden leg for Christmas.It’s not her main present. Just a stocking filler.

Tampax have replaced the string on their tampons with a piece of tinsel.... They say it's only for the Christmas period.

And just to offend everyone

A young girl sat on Santa's knee. He said, "What would you like for Christmas, little girl?"

"Some hairs on my special place," she replied.

"Hmmm, do you mind if they're white ones?" asked Santa....

Finally I am hoping for a better Christmas this year. Last year I got a sweater, I was hoping for a moaner or a screamer.

Only 20 days of this misery to go.

TCB

The Bitch reminisces

To call my mother a bad cook would be an understatement. She was a truly appalling cook. It wasn’t until I got to go to school (and in England in those far off days the schools provided hot lunches) that I discovered that gravy was supposed to move. At some stage in my formative years she shoplifted the precursor to a food processor, which was a simple one-speed blender. She never got past the first page of the “recipe” booklet, which was a cheese and tomato sandwich. It was a simple recipe (which of course suited her talents), throw tomatoes and cheese in blender, turn on, smear over bread and serve. I don’t recall if it was the acidity of the tomatoes or the fact that this mess looked like vomit but it always tasted like vomit. As I type this blog I am retching with an involuntary gag reflex. Eating my mother’s food was like getting your stomach pumped in reverse. To be fair she did, in later life, extend her repertoire to chip sandwiches (for the benefit of you colonials chips in English means fries, we call chips crisps) until one night she left the chip pan on and pretty much torched the house. After that we were back on sick sandwiches.

So having set the scene let us go back in time to the mid sixties. Two days before Christmas the old man brought home a fresh turkey. I assume that it had fallen off the back of a truck and that the fall had killed it but it still had two legs and wings and feathers. The next day I observed the parental units pouring over Mrs. Beaton’s Good Cook Book punctuated by the occasional heated words. This was going to be bizarre even by our family standards.

Christmas morning I was up at six when I should have won an award for the shortest lived Christmas present. I got a model helicopter that sat on a handle. You pulled the string on the handle, which span the blades and the helicopter soared into the air. As soon as I unwrapped it I put it on the base and pulled the string. It really did soar, right into the living room ceiling where it smashed into a hundred pieces of cheap plastic.

Fast-forward 8 hours. Have you ever seen something that is so unbelievably unexpected that you literally cannot believe your eyes? Well try to imagine this. At lunchtime I wandered into the kitchen and there was Christmas lunch laid out on the table. A brown turkey steaming away, creamed potatoes, roast potatoes, sprouts, swede, parsnips and a big jug of gravy. This was incredible, unbelievable, I recall actually rubbing my eyes in disbelief. We sat down and the old boy brought out a bottle of champagne, God alone knows where that had come from. He removed the safety cage and pausing only to congratulate the cook, pried the cork out with his thumbs. The cork flew out, smashed the fluorescent tube in the ceiling and showered the table with shards of broken glass. There then followed a brief period of mourning for what might have been before the old girl flounced out of the kitchen followed a moment later by the slamming of a bedroom door. I looked up at the old man and his look of resignation was my cue to disappear. My Christmas lunch was spent gluing a helicopter together whilst gorging on Christmas chocs. I knew that I had to fill up before that damned blender was fired up again.

Happy days.
TCB

Coffee and Outrage

From time to time I like to check up on how the champagne socialists back in the old country are slowly destroying a once great nation. It serves as a constant reminder of how fortunate I am to be here in Kissbotty where the men are men and women are exquisitely delicious visions of loveliness. ( Hmm I am not sure where that came from, I suspect that that boss has hacked into my blog, oh well). Well today I see that the British Post Office has released a new Christmas stamp and I have to wonder what this all about. It is quite clear to me that Santa is taking a dump down some unfortunate’s chimney. I guess he checked his list twice and found that this little girl had been naughty. My outrage is caused by the fact that Queenie, aka little Lizzy Windsor, is being forced to watch this pornography. So I did a little research and discovered that the designer of the stamp is Japanese and that explains everything. For reasons that I have never fathomed, the Japanese are fascinated with their bodily functions and particularly bottoms. Some of the finest scat porn that I have ever accidentally stumbled on has been Japanese so perhaps making the Queen watch a dump is their revenge for that spot of unpleasantness in 1945.

Talking of bodily functions here is an absolutely true story courtesy of my friends at Kissbotty Radio (home to all the hits). Yesterday the song…. carol ended and then nothing. Well I know nothing about broadcasting but I know that dead air as it is called is the biggest no no there is. The peace and quiet was such a relief and then I caught myself humming Rocking Around the Christmas Tree, I now know that I am going slowly insane here. After about two minutes we got yet another version of Silver Bells and we were on our way again. Well, today the “presenter” ‘fessed up. It turns out that he forgot that songs of the 50’s were only on average two minutes long. Feeling the urgent need of a comfort break, he put on White Christmas (for the 100th time) and grabbing the Bigtown News headed of to the cludge for a monster movement. Half way through it dawned on him that the speaker in the bog had gone dangerously quiet and he was forced to do the stiff legged shuffle back to the studio in order to torture me once more. Such is life in Kissbotty County.

Finally courtesy of Kissbotty Radio I now think about Christmas carols all the time. You know how sad lonely people call radio stations and say "That song was written about me, that is my life in a song". Well these carols may have been written for you. I respectfully present for your approval;

Christmas Carols for the Psychiatrically Challenged

SCHIZOPHRENIA - Do You Hear What I Hear?

MULTIPLE PERSONALITY - We Three Queens Disoriented Are.

DEMENTIA - I Think I'll Be Home For Christmas.

NARCISSISTIC - Hark The Herald Angels Sing (About Me)

MANIA - Deck the Halls and Walls and House and Lawn and Streets and Stores and Office and Town ...or Deck the Halls and Spare No Expense!

PARANOIA - Santa Claus is Coming (To Get Me).

PERSONALITY DISORDER - You Better Watch Out, I'm Gonna Cry, I'm Gonna Pout, then maybe I'll tell you why.

DEPRESSION - Silent anhedonia, Holy anhedonia. All is calm, All is pretty lonely.

OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE - Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell Rock,
Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell Rock, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell,
Jingle Bell Rock, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell Rock, Jingle
Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell Rock, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle
Bell Rock, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell Rock, Jingle Bell,
Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell Rock, Jingle Bell...

BORDERLINE PERSONALITY - Thoughts of Roasting in an Open Fire.

PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE - On the First Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me (and then took it all away).

Only another 26 days of Kissbotty Carols to go, I'm buying a gun.

Happy Christmas
TCB

PS following the comment from DQ, here's one for you baby,

ADD - It's begining to look a lot like .......... Who wants to go for a bike ride?

Coffee and the Mystery

How I love a mystery and here is a mystery. Anonymous commented on Coffee and the Radio. Apparently I was wrong about the Kelly Clarkson thing. Anonymous contends that I was wrong about the reasons for the whining bitching lyrics (but not wrong on the fact that they are whining bitching lyrics). Setting aside the fact that I am never wrong I was somewhat delighted to discover that someone actually reads this drivel and more than delighted to see a comment (although Anonymous needs to refer to the point about the Bitch never being wrong). All of this got me thinking, what sort of person would challenge my manly rightness. So donning my best deerstalker I conclude that;

Someone in Austin, Texas logged on at 4:30 and the comment was made at 5:00. I know that it’s a big leap but it looks like the comment came from Austin. The server was in the University of Texas so the commenter is educated or being educated. You are using a Firefox browser and a high-resolution graphics card, which again all points to the more cerebral end of the human spectrum. I cannot imagine that anyone on the faculty is reading my nonsense so I am going to guess that you are a student. As you can clearly read and write (and if I may make so bold, rather well), you are not from Texas so you must be an out of state student and I will hazard a guess at a junior. You have dipped into rockycoffee more times than is healthy and you freely admit to having seen the video of the song, and yet you claim not to be a fan. Something of a dichotomy here, methinks. You must be a female, as no real man would admit to watching a Kelly Clarkson video

So Anonymous, that is all I have on you. You are a 21 year old female student with a sense of humor. You are in Austin but probably from somewhere north of the Mason-Dixon line and I have a question for you. How do you feel about going half shares in a baby?

L+K TCB

Coffee and the Radio

There are many great things about living in Kissbotty county, although it has to be said that we are not the most cosmopolitan locale in the U.S. As you know I have already whined on dreadfully about the lack of fine dining ( I bet there is not one tablecloth in the whole of the county) so I won’t bash on about that again. Instead I shall moan on about the state of local radio. We have, here, just about one radio station that is not hard-core country and that is of course, Kissbotty Radio, home to all the hits. (There is also some stuff on AM but to be frank I am not too interested in the price of pork bellies, or adverts about tractors). As you can imagine, during the many, many minutes of quiet time I have got to know the radio “presenters” quite intimately, I have also discovered that;

a) Kissbotty Radio has a playlist of about 50 songs
b) They must have some sort of payola deal with American Idol winners.

As a direct result of points a and b, I hear two songs even in my dreams, I know all the words and I am slowly going insane. Before I finally loose my last marble I would just like to say to Kelly Clarkson, STOP COMPLAINING. It is not the fault of your husband/partner/boyfriend that you are afraid to cross the road. That is so typical of a woman. My life is crap so it must be the fault of the person wearing the testes. Give it up beyatch, your life is turning to dust because you are a failure, it is your fault. You know that paranoid feeling you get when you hear laughter and think that people are talking about you? Well in your case it is true so stay in bed and stop singing.

There is another American Idol (or is it Idle) who is also torturing me, some silly bint called Cassie Underpants or something. Well Cassie listen up. When you are driving and hit black ice you should try to turn into the skid to regain traction. If you have anti-lock brakes you can jam you foot hard on the brake because you won’t make the situation worse. If you are a resident of Kissbotty and drive a 1980 Safety Inspection reject then you should probably not bother with the brakes at all. When you emerge from the ashes of your Ford Pinto I earnestly recommend that you do not tell the police investigator that you threw your hands in the air and screamed “Jesus take the wheel”. You might just find that your insurance company holds you negligent and refuses to pay you the $15 that your “car” is worth. By the way the baby should not have been asleep lying on the back seat. If social services catch you with the baby not in a child seat they will probably take the little snot eater into care. Still look on the bright side, you can sing a duet with Kelly about how your accident was the fault of some poor harmless bastard that looked at you once back in the 80’s.

For those of you who know about these things, and let’s face it if you live in Kissbotty and didn’t see the Country Music Awards then you is “probly a pinko commie gay boy from the North”, Faith Hill was right to throw a shit fit. Cassie your “career” is about a year old and you are the Country Music Star of the Year, I don’t think so. How did you do that? Don’t answer I think I can guess. It looks like Faith blew her opportunity, or perhaps she didn’t blow, if you catch my drift. Anyway lest you think I am biased I didn’t vote for Ms Hill, I actually wanted Shania to win because she is on my “to do” list. Sorry Faith I feel your sorrow.

This rant seems to have gone off track as I started with the intention of castigating Kissbotty radio. You see just as I thought that things could not get worse Kissbotty radio announced themselves as the official Christmas station and promised to play only Christmas songs from now on. Come on guys, it is November! Give me a break. After only two days of Bing and Perry and the Carpenters, I want Cassie Underpants back.

“Jesus take the coffee machine.
I can’t brew this any more”

TCB

FOTL1 is Evil

Absolutely nothing of interest has happened at all this week. I have been starved of amusement by a total lack of weird customers. Perhaps they have all gone away for thanksgiving which is where I shall be soon, so I thought that I would blog this little story before I slip into the arms of Bacchus for four days. See you Monday my little love cakes.

FOTL1 called into her local Chinese take away for some lunch today. Making conversation she asked if they would be closed tomorrow. Mr. Wong looked puzzled and said “What for we be close?” FOTL1 replied “For Thanksgiving”. Suddenly awareness dawned on Mr. Wong and he said “You write me sign” OK says FOTL1 what do you want the sign to say. “You write Fanksgivin Close”. Sure says FOTL1 why don’t we go with Closed for the Thanksgiving Holiday. OK OK says Mr. Wong you write sign. So FOTL1 writes the sign and collects her lunch. She is a touch disappointed that Mr. Wong didn’t offer her a discount on her lunch but she did derive some pleasure from watching Mr Wong stick a sign in his door window that stated

Closed by the Health Department

She really is the spawn of Satan; I can’t imagine were she gets it from

Coffee and the PDA

For some reason we had an absolutely frantic lunch session yesterday. I can tell you at the end of it all, I was quite drained. So I had just sat my weary old arse down with a nice cup of Earl Gray and a shortbread when the door bursts open and in flies Simon Sue (Sue, Grabbit and Runne, LLP International Attorneys). Red faced and flustered he wheezes, “Have you seen my Palm Pilot?”

Before I continue this tale, Am I the only Bitch in the world that thinks that Palm Pilot is not a great marketing strategy? When I hear the term “Palm Pilot” I cannot but help thinking of a prepubescent schoolboy who has just discovered what his right hand is for. You know the Freudian stage of psychosexual development where the penny had dropped but the boys haven’t. Anyway back to (simple) Simon.

As you can imagine I wasn’t best pleased with this interruption to my hard earned tea break so I looked up and with the most innocent expression I could muster I asked if it was important. “Yes”-squeaked Simon, “it has all my appointments, client details, court appointments and billing hours”. “Oh” I reply with even more concern, “did you back up the information?” “No”, whined Simon “not forever. Have you seen it?”

“Well Simon, as it happens, I have”. “Oh thank God, where is it”. “At this precise moment it is on Ebay with a reserve price of $200”, I reply. “Please be sure to bid nice and high I would hate to see the memory erased before it is sold”.

You would think that a Lawyer would know that the law in Virginia is finders keepers.

I really do rule
TCB

Coffee and Awards

Well it has to be said that it was a night of disappointments. First of all search as I might there was no sign of Meg Ryan. Look Meg I need to tell you that those puppies are heading south at an alarming rate, you really need to make your move soon especially as Britney is back on the market. I am not going to wait forever, OK?

Anyway the ceremonies commenced and I was on tenterhooks holding out for the “Bitch most likely to be caught in a deviant pose with an illegal Guatemalan transsexual nurse whilst enjoying a reach around with a spider monkey” award. Sadly, and I must hold Smalltown to task over this, there was no such category. We eventually settled for New Business of the Year. It was to say the least a crushing blow but I fought back the tears and accepted with as much grace as I could muster. I suppose this means that hordes of Smalltownians will be flocking to our door and increasing my workload no end. This is particularly ironic as I have been doing my best to keep the plebeians away by letting them know that I have been grinding the fresh ginger between my butt cheeks. (And I think that there might still be a piece caught there as my bum burns like the very anus of Satan himself).

If there was any good news then thankfully the event was not managed by the Smalltown cops so at least I get to flash another day, brace yourselves ladies, I am on a roll. Incidentally FOTL1 (who knows about these things) tells me that the age of consent in Virginia is 13, which is very handy. She might have added a few caveats but you know how it is, you only hear what you want to hear.

Finally Don Rumsfeld has got the push and that is a shame. Old Rummy (as he liked me to call him) was a horribly misjudged man as this short video shows.

The Coffee Bitch in-decision

Recently The Smalltown Gazette has been running a series of articles, which I can only describe as “Dumb Criminal” stories. The deal is that the local cops will write to a whole load of local miscreants and invite them to a prize giving or award ceremony or some such similar bash and when they turn up to register, they get slapped in chains. Apparently it is the most cost effective method of collecting the local scumbags and every time I read another police sponsored scam story I shake my head in wonder as to how dumb these moron criminals can be. Today I received the following email. (To protect the guilty the xxxxxx are mine).

Dear Coffee Bitch,

We would love to have you attend the meeting, as we will be presenting a special award to The Smalltown Coffee House.

XXXXXXXXXX - Community Partnership for Revitalization

You are cordially invited to

The Annual Meeting of
The Community Partnership For Revitalization

November 15th – 6:00 to 7:00 p.m.

Light refreshments will be served.


Immediately following the annual meeting, there will be a performance by “XXXXXXXXXX” to which the public is invited. The quintet was formed as one of the component groups of the United States Air Force Heritage of America Band. The quintet presents a unique blend of chamber music, drawing from the repertoire of classical composers such as Puccini and Bach to the contemporary music of Baccarat and Gershwin. Their repertoire also includes popular music selections as well as patriotic music.


Please RSVP by November 10th by e-mail at XXXXXXX@XXXXXXXX or call xxx-xxx-xxxx.



Well I think that I smell a large brown furry rodent here. Can it be that the Smalltown flasher has finally been unmasked (figuratively speaking of course). I think I might just send the boss in my place. Then again what happens if the award involves cash? Damn, I won’t see that. Worse still, suppose it is presented by Meg Ryan dressed in a Girl Guides uniform with a six pack in one hand, a pizza in the other and a come upstairs Bitch look on her face, don’t laugh it might happen. Now I know how those dumbass criminals feel. What a tizzy of indecision. Watch this space all will be revealed on Wednesday. Actually it might be best if all is not revealed, this will be one night in Smalltown when I keep the boys in their barracks.

Yours in anticipation
TCB

Coffee and the menu

One of the many things that I have learned being the Coffee Bitch is that marketing is a skill. Here in Smalltown (and in Kissbotty County for that matter) there are no Rolls Royce dealers. There are however countless tractor dealers and you can see where I am going with this. You cannot sell brioche to a market that wants biscuits and gravy (for less than $1). So I have been observing our morning customers to see exactly what they want in order to be able to accommodate them. Starting from Monday the new breakfast menu will be a set price of $2.75 + tax, which is $3 even and includes;

A bagel
A small coffee
A glass of iced water
A spot of scintillating Bitch conversation
A monster dump that closes the trap for 20 minutes and sends the roaches scurrying for the backdoor with handkerchiefs over their little noses.

Seriously ladies, there are certain things that you should not be doing in public and one of them is a bodily function. This should be reserved for the privacy of your own boudoir and to be frank if you need to be blocking my cludgy at 7:30 in the morning you may want to have a word with your proctologist. Thank you.
Talking of bodily functions in public, if you enter a fast food restaurant solely to use the facilities, this is known as taking a McShit. If you are caught by the pimply-faced retard on guard and you tell him that you will purchase something after visiting the bathroom, then this is a McShit with lies. This happened to me just last week. I went into the crapper to find said retard cleaning up vomit from behind the bowl. His shirt said “I’m loving it” but the poor bastard’s face told a different story I can tell you.

The Bitch converses

Conversation 1.

I just love the way you talk
Thank you, I like your accent as well
Oh no, I am so country
There is nothing nicer than hearing a southern lady saying the word “yes”
Really?
Absolutely, as long as it is followed by another yes and a yes and a yes and a oh yes!
Goodbye
Bye ma’am have a nice day

Conversation 2.

Hello, This is the Smalltown Coffee House
Hello can you tell me what the soup of the day is?
Certainly madam it is Nutty Pumpkin
Mushy Pumpkin?
No ma’am Nutty Pumpkin
Yes Mushy Pumpkin
No, Nutty Pumpkin, as in Peanuts
Ah Mushy Pumpkin with peanuts
Oh yes that’s right ma’am
I don’t like pumpkin, Goodbye
Goodbye madam have a nice day

Coffee and Immigrants

I swear to God that this place is becoming more like the United Nations every week and I don‘t just mean the Yankee hoard that seem to be invading Kissbotty in ever increasing numbers. Today we had in all sorts, a Kiwi bird and a Kraut. I’m sorry that was hardly politically correct, let me rephrase that, A woman from New Zealand and a Kraut. We also had an Irish gent in and of course a delegation from England. At the same time we had just one American and when I pointed out that he was the ethnic minority he had the good grace to smile. He was in fact one of the Circuit judges that likes to dine here, which once again points out the fact that these judges are really jolly decent chaps. I do hope I get him when the Catholic Girls School finally gets to grips with the Smalltown phantom flasher.

Later that same day we had in an Australian. I can’t image why he should be here, after all America has hardly any sheep so how he manages for a love life is beyond me. I suppose I should be charitable towards immigrant Australians as long as they are not here on an “I married an American woman” green card. We don’t need any more people who border hop, steal our jobs and impregnate our women. After all that is why God created Canadians. I suppose that if you have to come from somewhere then Australia is better than Des Moines (just). Here are 10 reasons for Australian immigrants to feel homesick, and go home

1. The Alpha male can always be spotted as he is the one holding the BBQ tongs.
2. Fosters Lager
3. Dispossessing Aborigines who have lived in your country for 40,000 years because you think it belongs to you (hmm, just like Americans really)
4. Knowing that every civic function including the opening of Parliament will be accompanied by the sounds of sausages sizzling on a Barbie
5. Tact and sensitivity.
6. Bondi Beach.
7. Other beaches.
8. Liberated attitude to homosexuals
9. Drinking cold lager on the beach
10. Having a bit of a swim and then drinking some cold lager on the beach.

If by some dreadful mischance there is an Australian reading this (and I know you are) I have a question. Your national anthem, that Waltzing Matilda thing. If the jolly swagman actually did bring his mate Billy to the boil why are you people such homophobes, it doesn't make sense.

Finally a picture of a successful Saturday night in Wonga Wonga

Redefining xenophobia

TCB

Coffee and Crime

We left Fairfax county in part to escape the crime. The gangs were moving in, drive by shooting were becoming common and when the nice lady across the street was held up at gun point on her driveway we decided to head south. Sadly even Smalltown is not safe. The offices of Hemmer, Royd and Pile are just next door and yesterday Mrs. Pile came to see us to ask if we were all right. It transpires that some lout had thrown a beer bottle into their porch way. In Fairfax they have drive by shootings, in Kissbotty we have drive by beer bottle throwing. I suspect that it might have been a disgruntled client of Freddie Pile so I am uncertain as to why Mrs. Pile would worry about us being bottled after all no one ever got a bad latte from this Bitch.

Still this did give me an idea and quite fancying a few days off I called the Sheriff’s department and anonymously (faking a fine southern accent) told them that it was the boss that had committed the crime. Well, they sent the investigators around who after some hours worked out that the boss was off the hook. It seems that a bottle of Bud Natural was involved, had the glass been an old mason jar the boss would have been in the pokey and I would now be in a hammock surrounded by a bevy of bare breasted beauties attending to my every whim. God life can be so unfeeling. Still all this detective work gives me an idea for a TV franchise

CSI Kissbotty (The Shine Wars)

The Bitch speaks nonsense

When I first arrived in this great country I was working for a reasonably large size company with offices in Virginia and Texas. Every week we would have a teleconference and spend an interminable two hours spewing out (and failing to listen to the other person’s) pointless rhetoric. This was my first experience of corporate babble taken to such a pervasive level. It so blew me away that I printed out some bullshit bingo cards and anonymously (ever the coward) left them in the meeting room. If you have never played bullshit bingo check this out. These days, of course, I no longer have to tolerate this nonsense apart from the odd customer who sadly feels the need to bolster their ego with a spot of “blue sky thinking in the workplace”.

It goes without saying that I don’t try this on with the boss these days. That would simply be an invitation to introduce my boys to her knee. It is not just because these phrases are just examples of meaningless office twaddle but the fact that they simply mask the ineptitude of worthless employees that irritates me beyond belief. The next time someone drops this nonsense into a conversation at the Coffee House I will hit back with my own Bitch speak. For example, achieving success is dependent on a bit of horizoning - not quite the same as predicting the company's future performance, more like staring out of the window. This may also be commonly known as workspace-specific perceptual abstraction (daydreaming.) You may also try to get away with non-specific interfacing (needless chat) or possibly some activity deficit substitution (looking busy).

Other office babble that you might like to use (but not on me) might be

Sprouting: Generating ideas on a greener workplace
Raise the bar on this: Leave for the pub
Expectation management: What the boss wants to hear
Metime: Out of office time
Going tarso-mandibular: Putting your foot in your mouth

Better perhaps to stick to inter-departmental liaison facilitation or asking your friends out to the Coffee House for lunch. Serious facetime is essential, that peculiar part of the day when you have completed all of your work but have to stay around to show your face. Some of that can be successfully filled with a company core dump, which is the five minutes just before the end of the day when you can take a paid comfort break.

So how to spot these idiots? Well, they will be the ones testiculating - waving their arms around while talking bollocks (you need to be English to understand that, sorry). They will often be supported by a backing singer, that familiar person in a meeting who doesn't contribute their own ideas but just nods along with the boss.

Well it looks like it is time for some red sky thinking, the signal, in these darkening autumn days that it is nearly time to go home. Before I do I just need to herd the dinosaurs to the right end of the cricket green, whatever that might mean.

Coffee and the notes

A little while ago we hosted a party for about 16 adults. It was all rather jolly although slightly marred, in my not so humble opinion, by the presence of some children. I don’t know why people would think that their snots would be welcomed or even wanted at these bashes but clearly they do. I suppose these mothers feel some sort of conscience at dumping the brats off in childcare from 7 until 3 so to assuage their collective feelings of guilt they dump the snot on me. To be fair I should say that all the little snots were actually quite well behaved and the afternoon turned out to be quite bearable. Just as we were winding down one of the mothers snuck up on me with a note that her little angel had written that she wanted to make sure wasn't thrown out with the trash (like I would, really).



Anyway I have to say that I find love notes from children somewhat disturbing, rather like seeing adults in Boy Scout uniforms, it just creeps me out. Although the same cannot be said for fit young ladies dressed in Girl Guide uniforms in fact I could do with seeing that quite a bit more often, actually I might have to have a good hard think about that right now. OK I'm back, where was I? Oh yes, so later I looked at the little boy's love letter (shudder) and realized that he had crossed the heart out. So does this mean that he was actually saying that he hates me? I do hope so. For a start that grosses me out a lot less. Secondly, as you know, I am an ethnic minority. This means that his little note now falls under the category of a hate crime. Should I care to report him he is guaranteed at least 5 years in a federal lock up. I am not sure if Virginia executes children or whether that is just Texas but I think I shall call the Feds anyway. That buzzing sound you can hear is Governor Kaine firing up old sparky.

Later that day an odd looking old bird staggered in. She was dressed like a 60-year-old goth and to be brutally honest smelled rather of the juniper berry. Still, she was no trouble and eventually wobbled off into the night. When I came to bus her table I found this card.


Damn why would she do that? Jesus might be my savior but in this Coffee House the boss is God and a vengeful God at that. So people if you want to leave the Bitch hate mail or love notes or save my soul, just write on the back of an Alexander and I promise that your note will not be on the fast track to room 101.

Coffee and the Mountain Man

I suppose that we have settled into a cozy little routine here in Smalltown. Between 7 and 8 we get the high school kids coming in for breakfast. I like to take this opportunity to help their psychological development by letting them know that if their mothers really loved them they would provide a nice breakfast at home. When I see a little tear forming I say, “Hey I’m just messing with your head, no one is ever going to love you”. Then from 8 until 9 we get the office workers and about midmorning the retirees come in for bagels and a spot of scintillating Bitch conversation. So it was yesterday when in walked the biggest mountain man I have ever seen. This guy was huge, maybe 350 pounds and 6’3” tall. He was sporting a huge black beard and had the hairiest arms, shoulders and back. (Yes on a pretty cold morning mountain man was attired in a singlet vest). This guy could seriously commit suicide by sunbathing during bear hunting season. As I have previously mentioned, you can’t judge a book by its cover, or did I say the opposite? Oh whatever, he was a nice guy, perhaps a little too friendly as he muscled in on one of my regular retired couples but they seemed OK with it and at least they will have a story to tell. I don’t quite know how we got onto teas but we did and he decided that he wanted to try some so he would be back later. Later turned out to be about 2 hours when he returned with his old Mum. Now I have already described Man Mountain so I won’t bore you by laboring the point but his mother was tiny. 5’3” max and maybe 75 pounds, by the second trimester MM’s feet must have been hanging out. This woman made FOTL1 look like Xena Warrior Princess. As you know tea is where I am a Viking so I went through my spiel and we decided to start off with a nice pot of Earl Grey. You really have to have been there to see MM sipping Earl Grey out of a bone china teacup with his pinky in the air. We experimented with various blends and eventually he said, “ I have to say that I prefer the aroma of the Prince Charles blend”. There you have it, not only do I cure senility but I turn mountain men into epicureans. He had such a jolly time that he promised to bring his buddies in for a cream tea. Can you imagine? When it happens I promise I will take a picture and post it here, this is going to be interesting.

Tea for Two
TCB

Coffee and Halloween

Searching for inspiration I decided to casually Google "Coffee and Halloween". Buried deep in the results was this, the sexy barista outfit. Now that is what I call a woman, it is not the face, body or uniform that does it for me, it is just that she is holding out a tip jar. What a woman. Just to prove (once again) that every silver lining has a cloud, this puppy goes up to 6X size and one has to ask what is that about. Sexy barista with 55 inch hips? I'd rather be circumcised by an epilectic having a grand mal seizure whilst coming down from a 5 day meth amphetamine binge and wielding a rusty grapefruit knife. Oh well they say that you can't judge a book by it's cover. Actually that is not strictly true. Last weekend I bought Sexy Spanking Schoolgirls. vol. V and fortunately found its cover to be an excellent indication of its contents.

Trick or Treat?

The Coffee Bitch cures senility

This little tale would be completely pointless if it wasn’t for the fact that every word is the gospel truth. One of my fairly regular lunch customers came in with his mother, who is an infrequent visitor, and her mother who I have never seen before. The old girl, who must have been 80 if she was a day, was clearly having difficulty in the cognitive department and as such I just knew that I was going to have some fun with her. I gave them extra time to peruse the menu of delights but without any surprise the old girl still had no idea what she wanted. Her daughter and her grandson tried prompting her but she was having none of it. (Sometimes I think that old folk do this deliberately to piss off their children. Certainly I have told FOTL1 that when I am 83 and senile she will be wiping my arse, and what is more I shall make her wipe it even when it doesn’t need wiping). Out of the blue the boy asks me what part of the UK I was from. When I told him, Granny pipes up “That’s not the real England”. Then I remembered this was the guy who had told me that his Granny was from the UK. Well it turns out that she had got her hooks into a GI in 1945 and had lived here ever since. Two bizarre things then happened. The first was that within minutes she lost a 60-year American accent and started talking the Queens English. The second was that her IQ shot up by 100% and she started to talk sense and choosing things off the menu. We had a grand old time taking the piss out of her American daughter and grandson and she was thrilled to see that I had a picture of “Winnie” on my wall. The two of us had a lovely lunch together but eventually they had to take the old girl away and she was really sad to have to go. I have to say that I too was sad to see her go especially as it was clear that talking to me is a perfect cure for senility. I almost felt bad about charging her for an extra cup of tea that she didn’t have, but needs must and she obviously wasn’t as sharp as she thought she was.

Cha-ching.

Coffee and the Dilemma

My life is just a series of dilemmas strung together by extended periods of boredom. For example just yesterday whilst gazing mindlessly at the ceiling tiles the Digital Queen of Smallville and a girl friend came in for lunch. It had been raining all day so customers were fairly thin on the ground and this was bound to be an intellectual distraction in an otherwise plebian day of serving lattes to luddites. Well the ladies succumbed to the boss’s soup and sandwiches and ended with one of my finest cappuccinos. Finally they decide it was time to go (and far be it from me to tell tales out of school but those girls really milked the lunch hour). Suddenly to her chagrin the Queen’s friend discovered that she had left her money in her car. The Queen of course offered to cover the tab but found herself just a couple of dollars short. Now as I have explained on may occasions the Queen has been more than generous with her donations to my tip jar so despite the protestations of her friend who offered to go out in the rain to get more wedge I was happy to break the habit of a lifetime and extend a little credit. Mind you I have to say the thought of holding the Queen hostage until she had “loved down” the debt (if you catch my drift) was almost more than man and Bitch could bear until I saw the boss leaning against the kitchen door idly flicking the fly swat and looking at my groin. So the ladies departed into the rain and the IQ of the Coffee House dropped by 50%. About 10 minutes later (and this is absolutely true) a customer who had ordered a take out soup called to say that it was the best soup he had ever had. This conversation went on for 10 minutes longer than necessary and during the call the Queen’s friend came back, dropped a handful of dead presidents on the counter, and departed after telling me that “she hated stiffing people”. Well I was down a couple of Washingtons and now I was up by about twenty, sweet. Now I know that the Queen is going to come back first thing Monday and try to settle the debt. So you see my dilemma, should I tell the boss that I was tipped out an extra twenty?

My life is not my own.