Several weeks ago, bored beyond the limits of human endurance, I was contemplating yet another moment of non-prescription pharmaceutically induced introspection when, like an oasis of culture in a desert of tedium, a customer wanders in off the street and orders a skinny caramel. No challenge for the Coffee Bitch but still more interesting than fresh brew or horror of horrors, fresh brew over ice blended. She drops me a Lincoln and with a huge smile says, “Keep it”. Now that is what I call a customer. Over the next few weeks she becomes quite the regular and we get chatting. I am berating the fact that the local ISP are a bunch of worthless salad tossers (see The Coffee Bitch bitches again) and that I am reduced to skanking wireless and getting 5 bps max. Well it transpires that she is the Queen of everything digital in Smalltown and without a pause she says that she will see if see can turn up the volume on her wireless network so that it hits the Coffee House. Now there you have the difference between the North and the South. In Fairfax county people can’t do enough for you, so they do nothing. Here in Kissbotty county people will actually go out of their way to help a stranger. Unbelievable. Well sadly the wick can’t be turned up enough so the Digital Queen calls her ISP and tells them to get around to the Coffee House and set us up. Within minutes they are in the shop and apparently DQ has sent them an email telling them that we are entitled to the Smalltown special package that reduces the price to less than 50%. How cool is that? So here’s to you, Digital Queen of Smalltown. If only there was a way to say thank you that doesn't involve free coffee.
As a postscript we are due to be installed on Tuesday. Whether the story involves bouquets or brickbats I shall tell it like it is. Watch this space.
TCB
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Coffee and Credit
So Jack the lad in his cheapy suit with his quasi business colleagues walks up to pay. I swipe his card and it is declined. Joy of joys, how can I maximize his humiliation? I don’t know how she does it but the boss reads my mind and puts on the “don’t you dare” face that I know and fear so well. So I discretely whisper, “I am sorry but this card seems to have expired”. Instead of picking up my tactful clue Captain Numbnuts says nice and loud “It can’t be it has another year to run, swipe it again. Well can you imagine my feelings? I really really want to tell it like it is, the boss is still wearing the “don’t” face and this insolvent dickwad is giving me grief. Smiling as sympathetically as I can, I respectfully inform him that I did and ask if he might possibly have an alternative form of payment. Jack the lad folds faster than Superman on laundry day and we get it all squared away.
Note to Chase Manhattan. When you provide your credit card reader I would like the complete and utter bastard software. This is the version that does not quietly say, “declined”. No, I require a klaxon and a big neon sign in the shape of a pointing finger. If you could append a mp3 of Morgan Freeman shouting “Loser” that would be fine.
Note to Chase Manhattan. When you provide your credit card reader I would like the complete and utter bastard software. This is the version that does not quietly say, “declined”. No, I require a klaxon and a big neon sign in the shape of a pointing finger. If you could append a mp3 of Morgan Freeman shouting “Loser” that would be fine.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Coffee and Trivia
After all the excitement of the last week not much of interest has happened so here is a collection of trivia that amused or bemused me recently.
Just on closing one Friday a guy walks in looking for lunch. Ever eager to earn a buck I looked after him and during conversation he told me he was on his way to jail. (You may remember that we are next to the Smalltown Courthouse and although I didn’t put two and two together, ergo next to the lockup). What with there being nothing much doing and being insatiably curious I started to shamelessly pump him for information. Well it turns out that he gets to work all week and then reports to the big house at 6:00 pm to be locked up until 4:30 Sunday. So he and I both work all week and at the weekend I do the Sam’s Club run, stock the shop, cut the grass, assorted yard work, house maintenance, repairs, clean the truck and so on. He gets served meals and has a good sleep. So now who is the winner here? Time for me to moon the sheriff and get some R+R weekends in the smallhouse.
We drove from Smalltown to Cultureville this weekend. There isn’t actually a road between the two so we spent an hour on one of those little bumpkin tracks that we have in Virginia. Finally an hour later we arrive to find the place closed. No market stalls, book fairs, wandering minstrels, nothing, what a rip. The only place that was open was an extremely iffy looking Pizza dump. Outside on a bench were seated a bunch of the local toughs but I had the boss in hand so we were safe. As it turned out the toughs were the staff and they turned out to be a rather jolly crowd. The restaurant was the nastiest fly blown portapotty I have ever eaten in. I don’t know how anyone could screw up a pizza so well but clearly the “chef” did. I can only assume that my accent translated my order into “Please may I have a lukewarm cat sick pizza on a stale base”. What made it more amazing was the multi-pierced waitress actually asked with a big smile “Isn’t that the greatest pizza you ever had?” That kind of left me speechless but I still left a big tip as I think she wanted me.
FOTL 1 called a few days ago. It transpires that her college has a skeet club. Now FOTL1 is a pretty damn good skeet shooter and disguises the fact by being 5 foot two and 100 pounds. When we lived up north we spent all summer blasting clays away instead of working, sweet. So when she starts talking to the club recruiter she blows him away with her experience and knowledge of 12 gauge doubled barreled (her gun of choice). Hopefully she will join and I will get a free pass. All that talk of shooting made me feel rather sad that I hadn’t shot forever so I took my favorite Benelli Legacy into the woods and blew away a few dead logs. There is nothing more satisfying than a good round of skeet and let me tell you nothing less satisfying than shooting logs. Oh well one day.
We had our first catering order recently. The client wanted muffins, cakes, Danish, cookies, coffee, iced tea, water, ice and so on. It really was a nice little order and we set it all up for them. The meeting was just 30 minutes long and it got me thinking, why can’t you people last for 30 minutes without sticking your faces in the nosebag? Then I thought of English folks. Offer your old Granny a rich tea biscuit and she might reluctantly accept. Now a rich tea biscuit is neither rich, nor tea nor a biscuit it is in fact like a piece of stale ship’s tack and to be avoided at all costs. Offer her two and she will absolutely refuse “Oh no I couldn’t possibly”. And there you have it. The English are so mean with their pleasures and perhaps this is why English old folk are so miserable. Americans seemingly regard their mouths as a pleasure center to be gratified at every opportunity and on reflection you people have got it right. Now I am off for a slice of cheesecake before lunch.
Yours in mastication
The Coffee Bitch
Just on closing one Friday a guy walks in looking for lunch. Ever eager to earn a buck I looked after him and during conversation he told me he was on his way to jail. (You may remember that we are next to the Smalltown Courthouse and although I didn’t put two and two together, ergo next to the lockup). What with there being nothing much doing and being insatiably curious I started to shamelessly pump him for information. Well it turns out that he gets to work all week and then reports to the big house at 6:00 pm to be locked up until 4:30 Sunday. So he and I both work all week and at the weekend I do the Sam’s Club run, stock the shop, cut the grass, assorted yard work, house maintenance, repairs, clean the truck and so on. He gets served meals and has a good sleep. So now who is the winner here? Time for me to moon the sheriff and get some R+R weekends in the smallhouse.
We drove from Smalltown to Cultureville this weekend. There isn’t actually a road between the two so we spent an hour on one of those little bumpkin tracks that we have in Virginia. Finally an hour later we arrive to find the place closed. No market stalls, book fairs, wandering minstrels, nothing, what a rip. The only place that was open was an extremely iffy looking Pizza dump. Outside on a bench were seated a bunch of the local toughs but I had the boss in hand so we were safe. As it turned out the toughs were the staff and they turned out to be a rather jolly crowd. The restaurant was the nastiest fly blown portapotty I have ever eaten in. I don’t know how anyone could screw up a pizza so well but clearly the “chef” did. I can only assume that my accent translated my order into “Please may I have a lukewarm cat sick pizza on a stale base”. What made it more amazing was the multi-pierced waitress actually asked with a big smile “Isn’t that the greatest pizza you ever had?” That kind of left me speechless but I still left a big tip as I think she wanted me.
FOTL 1 called a few days ago. It transpires that her college has a skeet club. Now FOTL1 is a pretty damn good skeet shooter and disguises the fact by being 5 foot two and 100 pounds. When we lived up north we spent all summer blasting clays away instead of working, sweet. So when she starts talking to the club recruiter she blows him away with her experience and knowledge of 12 gauge doubled barreled (her gun of choice). Hopefully she will join and I will get a free pass. All that talk of shooting made me feel rather sad that I hadn’t shot forever so I took my favorite Benelli Legacy into the woods and blew away a few dead logs. There is nothing more satisfying than a good round of skeet and let me tell you nothing less satisfying than shooting logs. Oh well one day.
We had our first catering order recently. The client wanted muffins, cakes, Danish, cookies, coffee, iced tea, water, ice and so on. It really was a nice little order and we set it all up for them. The meeting was just 30 minutes long and it got me thinking, why can’t you people last for 30 minutes without sticking your faces in the nosebag? Then I thought of English folks. Offer your old Granny a rich tea biscuit and she might reluctantly accept. Now a rich tea biscuit is neither rich, nor tea nor a biscuit it is in fact like a piece of stale ship’s tack and to be avoided at all costs. Offer her two and she will absolutely refuse “Oh no I couldn’t possibly”. And there you have it. The English are so mean with their pleasures and perhaps this is why English old folk are so miserable. Americans seemingly regard their mouths as a pleasure center to be gratified at every opportunity and on reflection you people have got it right. Now I am off for a slice of cheesecake before lunch.
Yours in mastication
The Coffee Bitch
Friday, August 25, 2006
Coffee and Salvation
I was interrupted from my daily perusal of www.manilow.com by the sound of the shop door opening. “What now, this place is getting like Grand Central Station, Jesus I can hardly get to sleep at day”. Imagine my shock, nay joy, to look up and see, silhouetted by the rising sun, the bastard Mr Fixit. In one hand he held a cylinder of Freon and from his hip hung the pipes, tubes and gauges of his trade. This entire Clint Eastwood-ish scene just needed the theme from the Good, the Bad and the Ugly
Whip Snap Crack
Aarr – aarra – aa arara.
Oh just use your imagination. Anyway a quick check showed a steady gait, white eyeballs and no alcohol leaking from his epidermis, so I lead him to Bitch 2 and immediately began to regale him with my bon motes, wit and jolly banter. The boss put paid to that by grasping me warmly by the fundamentals and squeezing “Listen idiot we are paying this twat by the minute, leave him alone” she whispered. As she dragged me away, through tears of pain, I noticed him disappointedly look at his watch and write in his log, 15 minutes waiting time - $45, shit. Now that I am tucked away safely in the kitchen the boss announces that she is off to the bank with the (my) tip jar. Double shit. “While I am gone don’t bother Mr Fixit and don’t eat anything”. Well there are only a certain number of spitballs you can get to stick to a kitchen ceiling and after a while I started to ponder on what the boss had told me not to do. Triple shit what was it. Perhaps munching on some Cherry Garcia might help. So 5 gallon bucket in one hand and spatula in the other I commence shoveling. After a while as you might imagine the bucket starts to condensate and I can feel it slipping out of my grasp. Quadruple shit this is going to be messy. Letting go of the spatula I drop kick it skillfully into the sluice. Coffee Bitch ; one point. Now fumbling the bucket I drop it into the crook of my elbows and clutch it to my chest like Michael Vick taking one from Lee Suggs at a Virginia Tech game (and I really do mean that in the sense of playing Football). Coffee Bitch ; three points. Looking down I spot a pint of ice cream running down my apron. Now I remember instruction 2. Quintuple shit I need some paper towel or I am dead. Stepping over Mr Fixit I inadvertently break instruction 1 and ask how things are going. Without looking up he grunts "Looks like you have blown a seal". Horrified I reply, “No it’s ice cream, honest”.
There is much more to tell but after last Friday’s excesses I am off for an early night. I fully intend to be at Sam’s Club just before Sid and Doris Bonkers and just after the hot samplers are set up. I quite fancy some Creole Tuna for breakfast with some freshly squeezed mango and possibly a strawberry sorbet to follow. Now let’s see if I can get my weekend bonus without waking the boss up.
Yours in anticipation
The Coffee Bitch
Whip Snap Crack
Aarr – aarra – aa arara.
Oh just use your imagination. Anyway a quick check showed a steady gait, white eyeballs and no alcohol leaking from his epidermis, so I lead him to Bitch 2 and immediately began to regale him with my bon motes, wit and jolly banter. The boss put paid to that by grasping me warmly by the fundamentals and squeezing “Listen idiot we are paying this twat by the minute, leave him alone” she whispered. As she dragged me away, through tears of pain, I noticed him disappointedly look at his watch and write in his log, 15 minutes waiting time - $45, shit. Now that I am tucked away safely in the kitchen the boss announces that she is off to the bank with the (my) tip jar. Double shit. “While I am gone don’t bother Mr Fixit and don’t eat anything”. Well there are only a certain number of spitballs you can get to stick to a kitchen ceiling and after a while I started to ponder on what the boss had told me not to do. Triple shit what was it. Perhaps munching on some Cherry Garcia might help. So 5 gallon bucket in one hand and spatula in the other I commence shoveling. After a while as you might imagine the bucket starts to condensate and I can feel it slipping out of my grasp. Quadruple shit this is going to be messy. Letting go of the spatula I drop kick it skillfully into the sluice. Coffee Bitch ; one point. Now fumbling the bucket I drop it into the crook of my elbows and clutch it to my chest like Michael Vick taking one from Lee Suggs at a Virginia Tech game (and I really do mean that in the sense of playing Football). Coffee Bitch ; three points. Looking down I spot a pint of ice cream running down my apron. Now I remember instruction 2. Quintuple shit I need some paper towel or I am dead. Stepping over Mr Fixit I inadvertently break instruction 1 and ask how things are going. Without looking up he grunts "Looks like you have blown a seal". Horrified I reply, “No it’s ice cream, honest”.
There is much more to tell but after last Friday’s excesses I am off for an early night. I fully intend to be at Sam’s Club just before Sid and Doris Bonkers and just after the hot samplers are set up. I quite fancy some Creole Tuna for breakfast with some freshly squeezed mango and possibly a strawberry sorbet to follow. Now let’s see if I can get my weekend bonus without waking the boss up.
Yours in anticipation
The Coffee Bitch
Thursday, August 24, 2006
The Coffee House Rules
Those of you who have been following my scribblings for the last few weeks will have by now realized that I am the most tolerant, forgiving and nicest of Coffee Bitches. I should therefore apologize in advance for this blog which may appear to the delicate reader a touch tetchy. Unfortunately today has been the most miserable of days; it has been a day that made every minute seem like an hour. It has been a day where the smallest of dreams would not come true. It was a day that I would have willingly have exchanged for the prospect of performing pap smears on syphilitic camels using my tongue as a speculum. It was in short, a day that was as pointless as driving to El Paso.
As I opened the shop we were assailed by the smell of rotting beef, rotting ham, rotting turkey, rotting lettuce, well you get the point. The shop smelled like an Afghani dumpster. Yes indeed one of the Beverage-Airs had died in the night. This was not the one that featured in “Coffee and the art of freezer maintenance”, you remember, the one that still has traces of my vas deferens on the handle. No this was the bitch’s evil twin sister. While the boss went off to find her voodoo doll and the black needle I had an idea that was going to rescue us. You see I had paid attention to the adverts and I knew how to remove foul odors. Seizing the Fabreze bottle I started to liberally dust the meats slice by slice. The boss did not think that this was such a good idea and registered her displeasure by ramming the mop 24 inches into my rectum. It was either the shock or the surprise or (heaven forbid) the pleasure but something had me chicken dancing across the shop until the floor glistened with a sheen not seen since Yul Bryner checked out his old bacon bonce. Taking charge she dispatched me to the Walmarts to get some new meats. Today I discovered that there is only one thing more difficult than driving to the Walmarts with a mop up your arse and that is shopping at the Walmarts with a mop up your arse. “Did you know that you have a mop up your arse?”. “No, madam, I am an animal impersonator and today I am a Rhode Island Red rooster, 5 pounds of corned beef please”.
So back at the shop, the boss has wiped the body tissue off bitch number 1 and loaded her up. She fixes me with her gimlet eye and says “Well?” This appears to be an invitation to repair bitch number 2. Now those of you who bothered to read “Coffee and the art of freezer maintenance” will realize why my bowels turned to water (or they would have if they had not already been turned to wood). I ventured that maybe the freezer coil had iced up and turning the bitch off for a couple of hours might do it. Of course I knew that there was not a chance but it least it would give me 120 minutes to track down that bastard Mr Fixit. You will recall from the business with the freezer that I thought I had got him in my pocket by paying cash on the nail but despite many frantic, and to be honest increasingly panicky and pathetic voice mails he steadfastly refused to return my calls Damn you caller ID. I have since realized that paying these hill billies cash is a bad move as it appears they have a tendency to blow their wad on shine and be wrecked for weeks afterwards. I should imagine that the worthless twat is now locked up in the drying out tank aka the Sweaty Fraud Clinic. So there we have it. A perfect day in the shop thank you God, thank you so bloody much.
This miserable day has forced me to re-write the rules of the shop, which are now as follows
1. Because I am your Coffee Bitch does not mean I am your friend and I have no interest in you once the dead presidents have changed hands. I am supremely uninterested in the fact that you were in the UK 30 years ago. USAAF base Milldenhall is not the UK it is an airforce base in the UK. If you never left the PX you did not live in the UK and I am not interested. Also Frankfurt is in Germany not the UK. I just don’t care. The only acceptable conversations are.
Two of your most expensive coffees and don’t worry if the cup is not full.
Keep the change.
Oh Coffee Bitch it is huge, you are ripping me to shreds. (Ladies only on this one please).
2. It is no longer acceptable to order water or any form of water (ice water, water with lemon and so on). It has come to my attention that people who order water are cheap and cheap people do not tip. Most servers work for about $2 per hour and tips. I work for nothing and the boss demands a 50% kickback on the tips. I need the tip jar so don’t be so damn cheap.
3. When I hold the front door open for you I do not do this because I like you. I am doing this to solicit an extra tip. Please respond accordingly. I most certainly do not expect you to try and shake my hand with your faeces fingers.
4. Did I mention that I do not want to talk to you?
5. When I enquire, during your meal, if everything is OK I do this, not because I give a damn but because the boss makes me. You may reply by nodding or grunting. Do not ask me for anything else unless you have money in your hand.
These rules may be relaxed when
a) Mr Fixit dries out
b) Someone plucks the 37 remaining splinters out of my Hershey Highway
Yours in colostomy
The Coffee Bitch
As I opened the shop we were assailed by the smell of rotting beef, rotting ham, rotting turkey, rotting lettuce, well you get the point. The shop smelled like an Afghani dumpster. Yes indeed one of the Beverage-Airs had died in the night. This was not the one that featured in “Coffee and the art of freezer maintenance”, you remember, the one that still has traces of my vas deferens on the handle. No this was the bitch’s evil twin sister. While the boss went off to find her voodoo doll and the black needle I had an idea that was going to rescue us. You see I had paid attention to the adverts and I knew how to remove foul odors. Seizing the Fabreze bottle I started to liberally dust the meats slice by slice. The boss did not think that this was such a good idea and registered her displeasure by ramming the mop 24 inches into my rectum. It was either the shock or the surprise or (heaven forbid) the pleasure but something had me chicken dancing across the shop until the floor glistened with a sheen not seen since Yul Bryner checked out his old bacon bonce. Taking charge she dispatched me to the Walmarts to get some new meats. Today I discovered that there is only one thing more difficult than driving to the Walmarts with a mop up your arse and that is shopping at the Walmarts with a mop up your arse. “Did you know that you have a mop up your arse?”. “No, madam, I am an animal impersonator and today I am a Rhode Island Red rooster, 5 pounds of corned beef please”.
So back at the shop, the boss has wiped the body tissue off bitch number 1 and loaded her up. She fixes me with her gimlet eye and says “Well?” This appears to be an invitation to repair bitch number 2. Now those of you who bothered to read “Coffee and the art of freezer maintenance” will realize why my bowels turned to water (or they would have if they had not already been turned to wood). I ventured that maybe the freezer coil had iced up and turning the bitch off for a couple of hours might do it. Of course I knew that there was not a chance but it least it would give me 120 minutes to track down that bastard Mr Fixit. You will recall from the business with the freezer that I thought I had got him in my pocket by paying cash on the nail but despite many frantic, and to be honest increasingly panicky and pathetic voice mails he steadfastly refused to return my calls Damn you caller ID. I have since realized that paying these hill billies cash is a bad move as it appears they have a tendency to blow their wad on shine and be wrecked for weeks afterwards. I should imagine that the worthless twat is now locked up in the drying out tank aka the Sweaty Fraud Clinic. So there we have it. A perfect day in the shop thank you God, thank you so bloody much.
This miserable day has forced me to re-write the rules of the shop, which are now as follows
1. Because I am your Coffee Bitch does not mean I am your friend and I have no interest in you once the dead presidents have changed hands. I am supremely uninterested in the fact that you were in the UK 30 years ago. USAAF base Milldenhall is not the UK it is an airforce base in the UK. If you never left the PX you did not live in the UK and I am not interested. Also Frankfurt is in Germany not the UK. I just don’t care. The only acceptable conversations are.
Two of your most expensive coffees and don’t worry if the cup is not full.
Keep the change.
Oh Coffee Bitch it is huge, you are ripping me to shreds. (Ladies only on this one please).
2. It is no longer acceptable to order water or any form of water (ice water, water with lemon and so on). It has come to my attention that people who order water are cheap and cheap people do not tip. Most servers work for about $2 per hour and tips. I work for nothing and the boss demands a 50% kickback on the tips. I need the tip jar so don’t be so damn cheap.
3. When I hold the front door open for you I do not do this because I like you. I am doing this to solicit an extra tip. Please respond accordingly. I most certainly do not expect you to try and shake my hand with your faeces fingers.
4. Did I mention that I do not want to talk to you?
5. When I enquire, during your meal, if everything is OK I do this, not because I give a damn but because the boss makes me. You may reply by nodding or grunting. Do not ask me for anything else unless you have money in your hand.
These rules may be relaxed when
a) Mr Fixit dries out
b) Someone plucks the 37 remaining splinters out of my Hershey Highway
Yours in colostomy
The Coffee Bitch
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
The Coffee Bitch bitches (again)
Dear Local Internet Provider,
I thought that I should take a little time to update you on our situation. You may remember me from our many previous conversations. I am the Coffee Bitch and I run a little Coffee House in Smalltown. It is somewhat important to me that we offer our customers a wireless service and we really want to do that in a professional manner. At present, as I am sure you recall, we are having to skank wireless from someone in the area who is unknowing enough to run an unsecured network. This could be acceptable except for the fact that the owner of the network is, I presume, downloading vast amounts of gay zoophile between the hours of 9 till 5 instead of working. This means that the selfish bastard is gobbling up all of the bandwidth and leaving me with perhaps 5bps.
Well I have now made 6 calls to various numbers within your organization and each time I have been met with a disinterest that is quite astonishing. It is not going to be a major task to hook me up, as I have already explained 6 times. The cables are in, the router is connected, the wireless hub awaits your pleasure and we are ready to go. All you have to do is sit at a terminal, type in an IP address and bill us. Easy? Apparently not.
I imagine that your worthless and demotivated employees just sit around spliffing up and interfering with the lie of their (small, nay tiny) testicles. Certainly they have no time to welcome new customers to the fold. Many, many years ago in my home country, British Telecom had the monopoly on pretty much all forms of communication. Let me tell you that I thought that they were the absolute epitome of all that was worthless in industry. Let me also tell you that BT shines like a beacon in the night compared to your worthless and pathetic attempts to provide service which seems limited to keeping me on hold for 20 minutes and then spouting mindless rhetoric. I suppose that I should be grateful for if I was a customer God forbid I ever had a technical issue.
Doubtless you are no longer reading this letter, as you have at least a thousand other dissatisfied customers to ignore, and also another one of those crucially important testicle moments to attend to. Frankly I don't care. It's far more satisfying as a customer to voice my frustrations in print than to shout them at your unending hold music.
So why would I even call you? Well quite frankly in Smalltown there isn't anyone else is there? How saddened I therefore was, when I discovered to my considerable dissatisfaction and disappointment what a useless shower of bastards you truly are. You are sputum-filled pieces of distended rectum tissue of the highest order
May I close by saying that as a mark of my appreciation I have enclosed a pair of my boxers and no, that is not A1 sauce smeared into the gusset. I do hope that the airlock bag has worked as they were deliciously moist when I packed them and I would not want any of the delicate essence to be lost.
May God shrivel your private parts and grow a big black beard on your wife’s face.
The Coffee Bitch
Coffee and the Pocket Venus
There are only two things that the Coffee Bitch does not want to hear from a woman
1) “Of course I am sure it’s yours” , and
2) “Hello, Health Inspector”
Well finally and petrifyingly today we heard the second. This was followed by the snap, snap, snap of the rats throwing themselves onto the traps and a creeeeaaaakk which was later identified to be the boss’s arse cheeks clenching. “Stall her” the boss hissed “You know what I will do to you if we fail this inspection”. Yes boss, but you’ll have to sew them back on first”.
Now let me interrupt this tale of squalor, misery and degradation by mentioning that this girly was hot hot hot. She was just about 5 foot tall and perfectly proportioned. She must have spent all her young life in a gym because her six pack rippled under her shirt and they were topped off by a glorious set of firm and pert little funbags. Now the boss has on more than one occasion mentioned that I am such a wreck, my definition of hot is a pulse and four limbs. She is of course right but these days I am even prepared to be flexible on the limbs. In case you are wondering about my prowess the boss says that I am an awful lover but I don’t think you can judge these things after 10 seconds can you? Talking of love, as we were, my old friend granny turned up. (If you are reading this blog from top to bottom you should stop now, read Coffee and Old People and come back otherwise the next few lines won’t make much sense. I will wait for you).
OK welcome back and to those of you who are reading the correct order, sorry for the delay. It transpires that all of that pectoral flexing did its trick and granny was back to offer me lessons in love. I promise that you have never lived until you have heard an 80 year old say in a Deep South accent “I love you long time Coffee Bitch, me so horny”. Well what with the boss’s constructive critique of my technique (Of course size isn’t important, why do you ask stumpy?) I decided to accept her offer. Within 5 seconds she had got me into a 69 and she was away like a rat up a drainpipe. Of course as you have probably guessed, she got relaxed and the old problem came back. I lay there in a haze of confusion and methane and thought “Holy Mother of God I can’t stand another 68 of those”. Goodbye erection, see you in 10 years.
Back to the pocket Venus. She is on a mission so how can I stall her? Then I spot my in. Thank you God, thank you, she is carrying a Louis Vuitton bag. Now if there is one thing the Coffee Bitch does know (apart from coffee) is his handbags. Personally I am a Kate Spade man myself but I will be the first to admit that a fit woman accompanied by Louis can always turn my cynical eye. So dropping my face into seduce mode (the boss calls this smarmy mode) I knowingly smile and say “Is that a Louis Vuitton hobo?”. The reaction was all I could hope for and she screeched to a halt and did an about turn. Now with her back to the kitchen the boss was able to peep around the corner and with her come upstairs face on, give me a big thumbs up. I suppose the pocket Venus must have been in shock after all here in Smalltown most women’s bags say Walmart not VL, but we got on just fine. I explained the nuances of Louis and how to spot a fake. We looked at the piping, the lining, the date stamp and all the other stuff that the Chinky knock offs don’t get quite right. After some 20 minutes of this gay banter the boss stuck her hand around the corner and made a scurrying motion with her fingers. This I took to mean that the last roach had just been evicted and the coast was clear. Sadly it looked like Venus was not going to accept my offer to inspect the old Spam dagger so losing interest I wandered off while she did her thing in the kitchen.
Unbelievably we passed with flying colors and the boss actually came through on her promise. That night in Smalltown the only thing more fake than the boss’s orgasm was the Venus’ Louis Vuitton.
By the way one thing that came out of this was that we discovered that here in Kissbotty County (and I am sure it is the same where you live) you can go on line and see the health records of every food establishment. Oh what fun. I am going to do this forever or until Granny’s medication kicks in.
Toodle Pip.
1) “Of course I am sure it’s yours” , and
2) “Hello, Health Inspector”
Well finally and petrifyingly today we heard the second. This was followed by the snap, snap, snap of the rats throwing themselves onto the traps and a creeeeaaaakk which was later identified to be the boss’s arse cheeks clenching. “Stall her” the boss hissed “You know what I will do to you if we fail this inspection”. Yes boss, but you’ll have to sew them back on first”.
Now let me interrupt this tale of squalor, misery and degradation by mentioning that this girly was hot hot hot. She was just about 5 foot tall and perfectly proportioned. She must have spent all her young life in a gym because her six pack rippled under her shirt and they were topped off by a glorious set of firm and pert little funbags. Now the boss has on more than one occasion mentioned that I am such a wreck, my definition of hot is a pulse and four limbs. She is of course right but these days I am even prepared to be flexible on the limbs. In case you are wondering about my prowess the boss says that I am an awful lover but I don’t think you can judge these things after 10 seconds can you? Talking of love, as we were, my old friend granny turned up. (If you are reading this blog from top to bottom you should stop now, read Coffee and Old People and come back otherwise the next few lines won’t make much sense. I will wait for you).
OK welcome back and to those of you who are reading the correct order, sorry for the delay. It transpires that all of that pectoral flexing did its trick and granny was back to offer me lessons in love. I promise that you have never lived until you have heard an 80 year old say in a Deep South accent “I love you long time Coffee Bitch, me so horny”. Well what with the boss’s constructive critique of my technique (Of course size isn’t important, why do you ask stumpy?) I decided to accept her offer. Within 5 seconds she had got me into a 69 and she was away like a rat up a drainpipe. Of course as you have probably guessed, she got relaxed and the old problem came back. I lay there in a haze of confusion and methane and thought “Holy Mother of God I can’t stand another 68 of those”. Goodbye erection, see you in 10 years.
Back to the pocket Venus. She is on a mission so how can I stall her? Then I spot my in. Thank you God, thank you, she is carrying a Louis Vuitton bag. Now if there is one thing the Coffee Bitch does know (apart from coffee) is his handbags. Personally I am a Kate Spade man myself but I will be the first to admit that a fit woman accompanied by Louis can always turn my cynical eye. So dropping my face into seduce mode (the boss calls this smarmy mode) I knowingly smile and say “Is that a Louis Vuitton hobo?”. The reaction was all I could hope for and she screeched to a halt and did an about turn. Now with her back to the kitchen the boss was able to peep around the corner and with her come upstairs face on, give me a big thumbs up. I suppose the pocket Venus must have been in shock after all here in Smalltown most women’s bags say Walmart not VL, but we got on just fine. I explained the nuances of Louis and how to spot a fake. We looked at the piping, the lining, the date stamp and all the other stuff that the Chinky knock offs don’t get quite right. After some 20 minutes of this gay banter the boss stuck her hand around the corner and made a scurrying motion with her fingers. This I took to mean that the last roach had just been evicted and the coast was clear. Sadly it looked like Venus was not going to accept my offer to inspect the old Spam dagger so losing interest I wandered off while she did her thing in the kitchen.
Unbelievably we passed with flying colors and the boss actually came through on her promise. That night in Smalltown the only thing more fake than the boss’s orgasm was the Venus’ Louis Vuitton.
By the way one thing that came out of this was that we discovered that here in Kissbotty County (and I am sure it is the same where you live) you can go on line and see the health records of every food establishment. Oh what fun. I am going to do this forever or until Granny’s medication kicks in.
Toodle Pip.
Monday, August 21, 2006
The Coffee Bitch goes bi-lingual
As a general rule I try not to worry about things too much, but writing, and subsequently posting, this blog is worrying me. I think that I am worried that I am worried for selfish reasons inasmuch as if I don’t post then I have wasted a portion of my weekend. Now weekends are valuable to me as you can imagine, because 12 hour days in the shop plus 7 hours for sleep plus all the other little pieces of nausea leave very little weekday left. I truly hope that I am worried more because of the fact that this observation of the human condition requires a certain sensitivity, which is probably way beyond my reach. I think it might be best to post and let anyone who wants to comment be the arbiter of good taste.
During the quiet period between 10:00 and 11:00 I like to sit in the bay window and read either the Bigtown News or the Smalltown Gazette. You can probably imagine that the Smalltown Gazette does not have too much to report on and quite often the scoop on the front page is something like “Town resident celebrates 87th Birthday”. I only read it because
a) I feel obliged to support a local small business, after all they buy my coffee and
b) The Bigtown news is always “Gang Violence claims another 120 lives” or “ Meth baby births up by 500%”.
Quite frankly I find that stuff all rather depressing. Another reason to sit in the bay window is that I can watch the world go by, or not in this particular case. What attracted my attention this particular morning was the sight of a guy walking like a crab on PCP. Clearly he was hugely affected by cerebral palsy and I watched with a morbid fascination as he headed inevitably towards the door. Because I am (oddly enough) a decent egg I jumped up and got the door for him. He waltzed in looking for all the world like his legs were no longer speaking to each other, which in a way they weren’t. One was trying to head north whilst the other was heading west. His arms joined in this symphony of misfiring neurons and synapses by waving pointlessly at the ceiling. You could feel the concentration as he headed towards a chair and when he finally made it he did the most amazing thing. I can only describe it as if his brain told every muscle to shut down and he just collapsed. Cool.
Now I am not a letch but I do appreciate beautiful things. I have stood in the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam and adored Rembrant’s Nightwatch. I have carressed a Ferrari Testarossa and I have been in the company of more than my fair share of truly beautiful women. My point here is that I was so fascinated by the human land crab that I completely mised the fact that he was accompanied by a vision of perfection. She was exquisite in every way, her inner leg measurement must have been at least 48 inches and she had that glorious shade of honey blond hair that set off a flawless complexion. She was, in short, the sort of woman whom you would willing pay to drink her bathwater. As a slight aside have you noticed that many beautiful but insecure women have a plain friend? I guess this is just to ampify their own good looks and I call it the Paris / Nicole syndrome. Well this godess also had an ugly friend who plays no part in this tale so we will mention her no more. Having put my tongue back and wiped up a pint of drool from the front of my apron I ambled over to wait on them. This was going to be interesting.
I usually start by asking what people need to drink. Now I don’t mean to be cruel here, I really don’t but I can only call it like it was. This guy looked at me and said “Nnnnn naaah, nahnahnah, nnnnnnn aaarrrrrrr” Without making eye contact with anyone the love goddess said “He wants a Coke and I will have a blended harmless”.
I hope by now that you have realized I am the most forgiving and tolerant Coffee Bitch in the world however this severely irritated me. First of all the love goddess did not let the land crab finish his “sentence” and secondly no one tries to out pretence the Coffee Bitch when it comes to coffee. I know exactly what a harmless is and there is only room in this shop for one bitch. However we were still talking as I am sure I heard her say “Oh Coffee Bitch it’s soooo veiny”. (On reflection I may have been wrong on that call and to really understand this you need to rent the movie Waiting). So I get the sandwich order in and the drinks out, only to have the harmless come back because there was not enough ice in it. Now we are at war, no one does that to the Coffee Bitch and as a general rule you should never piss off people who handle your food. (Again see Waiting). So later I take out the land crab’s sandwich and as I depart I hear the Goddess say “Oh Johnny you are such a pig, why can’t you wait for us”. All right, from this moment on you are Johnny not land crab and she is Ho Pants not love Goddess.
The boss has, over the last few weeks, beaten it into me that I must always go back to the table and check that everything is alright, so reluctantly I went to check on Johnny and the Ho. Doing the normal insincere pleasantries Johnny looked up at me and said “Nnnnn, aaaaa ghghgh more coke”. Well you have no idea how thrilled I was, I actually understood Johnny. This was like having a second language and if you are going to have a second language perhaps Palsy isn’t too shabby. Certainly it is more useful that Serbo Croat. Allow me to explain.
I was “educated” in the slums of the east end of London. The law said that every student had to be taught a second language but the reality was far removed from the theory. Basically we were taught that all foreigners were supposed to speak English and if they didn’t understand you all you had to do was shout at them. Years, no decades, later I tried an evening school in German. The motivation was that I was working for a German company and thought sucking Teutonic arse might help my career. The demotivation was that they were the bastards that bombed my Granny during World War II. Anyway you can perhaps now understand how pleased I was with this unexpected turn up for the books. So just as Johnny was finishing his sentence Ho Pants said “He wants more ….” I stopped her in her tracks by holding up my hand and without making eye contact said “I got it”. Deep Joy. We fenced away during the rest of lunch and eventually Johnny said “I need a box for my sandwich” Of course the Ho tried to translate but I didn’t need that so the best insult I could throw was to walk away before she finished. I gave Johnny his box and rather cruelly said “You need to get a new girlfriend, this one is past her sell by date”. Johnny looked up at me and with the biggest smile ever said as clear as a bell “ She is not my girlfriend she is my sister”.
As you can imagine the afternoon went downhill after that and they soon departed. For some inexplicable reason Ho Pants failed to tip me out and that is what I call really ugly.
Epilog
Johnny if by some horrible mischance you read this, and recognize yourself, I sincerely hope that you don’t think I am taking the piss. The possibility of distressing you was the reason I agonized over blogging our afternoon. What I am trying to do, is somewhat in the theme of Shallow Hal, show how dignified you were and how ugly your sister was. This situation and pediatric oncology are just two of the reasons that the big guy upstairs and I don’t converse too much these days. Anyway here is a deal. Get the Ho to drive you to the shop and lunch is on me. Come during the quiet period (oh who am I kidding come anytime) and we can hang out. For desert I will plunge a bread knife into her lower cerebellum and we can watch her do the chicken dance as she bleeds out. What do you say? You know you want to.
During the quiet period between 10:00 and 11:00 I like to sit in the bay window and read either the Bigtown News or the Smalltown Gazette. You can probably imagine that the Smalltown Gazette does not have too much to report on and quite often the scoop on the front page is something like “Town resident celebrates 87th Birthday”. I only read it because
a) I feel obliged to support a local small business, after all they buy my coffee and
b) The Bigtown news is always “Gang Violence claims another 120 lives” or “ Meth baby births up by 500%”.
Quite frankly I find that stuff all rather depressing. Another reason to sit in the bay window is that I can watch the world go by, or not in this particular case. What attracted my attention this particular morning was the sight of a guy walking like a crab on PCP. Clearly he was hugely affected by cerebral palsy and I watched with a morbid fascination as he headed inevitably towards the door. Because I am (oddly enough) a decent egg I jumped up and got the door for him. He waltzed in looking for all the world like his legs were no longer speaking to each other, which in a way they weren’t. One was trying to head north whilst the other was heading west. His arms joined in this symphony of misfiring neurons and synapses by waving pointlessly at the ceiling. You could feel the concentration as he headed towards a chair and when he finally made it he did the most amazing thing. I can only describe it as if his brain told every muscle to shut down and he just collapsed. Cool.
Now I am not a letch but I do appreciate beautiful things. I have stood in the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam and adored Rembrant’s Nightwatch. I have carressed a Ferrari Testarossa and I have been in the company of more than my fair share of truly beautiful women. My point here is that I was so fascinated by the human land crab that I completely mised the fact that he was accompanied by a vision of perfection. She was exquisite in every way, her inner leg measurement must have been at least 48 inches and she had that glorious shade of honey blond hair that set off a flawless complexion. She was, in short, the sort of woman whom you would willing pay to drink her bathwater. As a slight aside have you noticed that many beautiful but insecure women have a plain friend? I guess this is just to ampify their own good looks and I call it the Paris / Nicole syndrome. Well this godess also had an ugly friend who plays no part in this tale so we will mention her no more. Having put my tongue back and wiped up a pint of drool from the front of my apron I ambled over to wait on them. This was going to be interesting.
I usually start by asking what people need to drink. Now I don’t mean to be cruel here, I really don’t but I can only call it like it was. This guy looked at me and said “Nnnnn naaah, nahnahnah, nnnnnnn aaarrrrrrr” Without making eye contact with anyone the love goddess said “He wants a Coke and I will have a blended harmless”.
I hope by now that you have realized I am the most forgiving and tolerant Coffee Bitch in the world however this severely irritated me. First of all the love goddess did not let the land crab finish his “sentence” and secondly no one tries to out pretence the Coffee Bitch when it comes to coffee. I know exactly what a harmless is and there is only room in this shop for one bitch. However we were still talking as I am sure I heard her say “Oh Coffee Bitch it’s soooo veiny”. (On reflection I may have been wrong on that call and to really understand this you need to rent the movie Waiting). So I get the sandwich order in and the drinks out, only to have the harmless come back because there was not enough ice in it. Now we are at war, no one does that to the Coffee Bitch and as a general rule you should never piss off people who handle your food. (Again see Waiting). So later I take out the land crab’s sandwich and as I depart I hear the Goddess say “Oh Johnny you are such a pig, why can’t you wait for us”. All right, from this moment on you are Johnny not land crab and she is Ho Pants not love Goddess.
The boss has, over the last few weeks, beaten it into me that I must always go back to the table and check that everything is alright, so reluctantly I went to check on Johnny and the Ho. Doing the normal insincere pleasantries Johnny looked up at me and said “Nnnnn, aaaaa ghghgh more coke”. Well you have no idea how thrilled I was, I actually understood Johnny. This was like having a second language and if you are going to have a second language perhaps Palsy isn’t too shabby. Certainly it is more useful that Serbo Croat. Allow me to explain.
I was “educated” in the slums of the east end of London. The law said that every student had to be taught a second language but the reality was far removed from the theory. Basically we were taught that all foreigners were supposed to speak English and if they didn’t understand you all you had to do was shout at them. Years, no decades, later I tried an evening school in German. The motivation was that I was working for a German company and thought sucking Teutonic arse might help my career. The demotivation was that they were the bastards that bombed my Granny during World War II. Anyway you can perhaps now understand how pleased I was with this unexpected turn up for the books. So just as Johnny was finishing his sentence Ho Pants said “He wants more ….” I stopped her in her tracks by holding up my hand and without making eye contact said “I got it”. Deep Joy. We fenced away during the rest of lunch and eventually Johnny said “I need a box for my sandwich” Of course the Ho tried to translate but I didn’t need that so the best insult I could throw was to walk away before she finished. I gave Johnny his box and rather cruelly said “You need to get a new girlfriend, this one is past her sell by date”. Johnny looked up at me and with the biggest smile ever said as clear as a bell “ She is not my girlfriend she is my sister”.
As you can imagine the afternoon went downhill after that and they soon departed. For some inexplicable reason Ho Pants failed to tip me out and that is what I call really ugly.
Epilog
Johnny if by some horrible mischance you read this, and recognize yourself, I sincerely hope that you don’t think I am taking the piss. The possibility of distressing you was the reason I agonized over blogging our afternoon. What I am trying to do, is somewhat in the theme of Shallow Hal, show how dignified you were and how ugly your sister was. This situation and pediatric oncology are just two of the reasons that the big guy upstairs and I don’t converse too much these days. Anyway here is a deal. Get the Ho to drive you to the shop and lunch is on me. Come during the quiet period (oh who am I kidding come anytime) and we can hang out. For desert I will plunge a bread knife into her lower cerebellum and we can watch her do the chicken dance as she bleeds out. What do you say? You know you want to.
Coffee and Cawfey
I was on my travels a few days ago when I was suddenly overcome with the urge to eat. Now I don’t normally use these fast food places because, well quite frankly they are crap. This day however is was a measure of my desperation that I just had to pull Thunderbird 3 into a McCrappiness.
It will come as no surprise to regular patrons, but it was a surprise to me to note that you can order by numbers or for the less intelligent you can actually point to a picture and simply grunt.
For want of a better choice I ordered the crappy meal number 1 and the following conversation ensued.
“Waaa chew wan as a beverage?”
“Hmmm coffee please”
“Can’t do that”
“Why not?”
“Cawfey ain’t a beverage”
“What is it then?”
“Cawfey’s cawfey”
Even the Coffee Bitch cannot argue with that logic
McCrappy 1 Coffee Bitch 0
It will come as no surprise to regular patrons, but it was a surprise to me to note that you can order by numbers or for the less intelligent you can actually point to a picture and simply grunt.
For want of a better choice I ordered the crappy meal number 1 and the following conversation ensued.
“Waaa chew wan as a beverage?”
“Hmmm coffee please”
“Can’t do that”
“Why not?”
“Cawfey ain’t a beverage”
“What is it then?”
“Cawfey’s cawfey”
Even the Coffee Bitch cannot argue with that logic
McCrappy 1 Coffee Bitch 0
Coffee and Nationality
I was going to append this to the story about how I caught bi-lingual but as the ideas span around my head it just got to that "too long for and appendix but not long enough for a blog" stage. Not for a moment would I compare myself to Stephen King but he too had the same issue. He would write a story that was too long to be short and too short to be a novel. He called these ones Novellas. With all deference to Mr King here is a blogella
Dear Genben,
Thank you so much for your note. Are you sure that the Royal Canadian Mounted Police are going to give me a bad time about this stalking stuff? If so I might have to stay south of the border, sorry I know how much you where looking forward to meeting me and I had just bought a new see through Speedo for the occasion. Unfortunately I am in enough trouble with the boys in blue (or red in your case) ever since those bastards at the Samaritans took out that restraining order. By the way Samaritans it is not clever to put me on hold and it certainly is not funny to use the theme tune from MASH as the hold music. Cut it out.
You ask if I had to look up the words to the Canadian national anthem. How naive of you. Even Canadians have to look that up. I have seen you people at the start of the ballet you call ice hockey.
Canada oh Canada
Hmmmm hmmm hmm hmmm
And repeat for 8 lines.
Anyway I think that it is largely academic as I have seen quite a few politicians stitching another star onto Ol' Glory and we both know what that means. Looking on the bright side at least you will be the largest state in the union and that will put those uppity Alaskans in their place. By the way do you people have any oil? The answer to this will dictate whether Uncle Sam comes across the border in an SUV or an APC. Whatever, you are going to need a new name and of course a new state anthem.
As far as name goes we already have a Mexico and a New Mexico so I thought perhaps you could be White Mexico on the basis that most of your countrymen are already hopping the border to steal our jobs and impregnate our women.
As far as your new anthem goes I looked to Virginia for inspiration (this I had to look up as no one knows what that is). To say that I was appalled is an understatement. Here are the first two verses.
Carry me back to old Virginny.
There's where the cotton and corn and taters grow.
There's where the birds warble sweet in the spring-time.
There's where this old darkey's heart am long'd to go.
There's where I labored so hard for old Massa,
Day after day in the field of yellow corn;
No place on earth do I love more sincerely
Than old Virginny, the state where I was born.
Old darkey? Old Massa? Even the Coffee Bitch is horrified to see this rascist diatribe. Black people now I understand why you hate us. Still I am sure that when you nice Canadians rewrite your state anthem it will be much less bigotted.
White Mexico, White Mexico
We love everyone and want you to love us
And so on
With all this racism in mind I thought for the sake of regularity I should just check out the British Anthem. You can imagine my horror when I discovered that the sixth verse drones on about crushing rebelious Scots. Oh dear God no wonder they hate the English, where is this going to end? Well I knew I could trust in the duplicity of the American people who have already restored my faith in human nature. You see the third verse of their anthem used to say "The English blood has washed away the foul stench of their foorsteps on our land". These days someone has censored it so it is much less offensive. God bless America.
Anyway back to this stalking business. To be honest I have no desire to be mounted by one of your policemen so I shall have to stick to cyber stalking. I will however continue to dip into your life via http://genben.blogspot.com. Keep blogging.
Love and Kisses
The Coffee Bitch
Dear Genben,
Thank you so much for your note. Are you sure that the Royal Canadian Mounted Police are going to give me a bad time about this stalking stuff? If so I might have to stay south of the border, sorry I know how much you where looking forward to meeting me and I had just bought a new see through Speedo for the occasion. Unfortunately I am in enough trouble with the boys in blue (or red in your case) ever since those bastards at the Samaritans took out that restraining order. By the way Samaritans it is not clever to put me on hold and it certainly is not funny to use the theme tune from MASH as the hold music. Cut it out.
You ask if I had to look up the words to the Canadian national anthem. How naive of you. Even Canadians have to look that up. I have seen you people at the start of the ballet you call ice hockey.
Canada oh Canada
Hmmmm hmmm hmm hmmm
And repeat for 8 lines.
Anyway I think that it is largely academic as I have seen quite a few politicians stitching another star onto Ol' Glory and we both know what that means. Looking on the bright side at least you will be the largest state in the union and that will put those uppity Alaskans in their place. By the way do you people have any oil? The answer to this will dictate whether Uncle Sam comes across the border in an SUV or an APC. Whatever, you are going to need a new name and of course a new state anthem.
As far as name goes we already have a Mexico and a New Mexico so I thought perhaps you could be White Mexico on the basis that most of your countrymen are already hopping the border to steal our jobs and impregnate our women.
As far as your new anthem goes I looked to Virginia for inspiration (this I had to look up as no one knows what that is). To say that I was appalled is an understatement. Here are the first two verses.
Carry me back to old Virginny.
There's where the cotton and corn and taters grow.
There's where the birds warble sweet in the spring-time.
There's where this old darkey's heart am long'd to go.
There's where I labored so hard for old Massa,
Day after day in the field of yellow corn;
No place on earth do I love more sincerely
Than old Virginny, the state where I was born.
Old darkey? Old Massa? Even the Coffee Bitch is horrified to see this rascist diatribe. Black people now I understand why you hate us. Still I am sure that when you nice Canadians rewrite your state anthem it will be much less bigotted.
White Mexico, White Mexico
We love everyone and want you to love us
And so on
With all this racism in mind I thought for the sake of regularity I should just check out the British Anthem. You can imagine my horror when I discovered that the sixth verse drones on about crushing rebelious Scots. Oh dear God no wonder they hate the English, where is this going to end? Well I knew I could trust in the duplicity of the American people who have already restored my faith in human nature. You see the third verse of their anthem used to say "The English blood has washed away the foul stench of their foorsteps on our land". These days someone has censored it so it is much less offensive. God bless America.
Anyway back to this stalking business. To be honest I have no desire to be mounted by one of your policemen so I shall have to stick to cyber stalking. I will however continue to dip into your life via http://genben.blogspot.com. Keep blogging.
Love and Kisses
The Coffee Bitch
Coffee and Medicine
This of necessity is going to be a very short post as I am absolutely exhausted. Twelve hours in the shop by myself, never again.
Sadly, last night the boss was taken very ill. She awoke with heart palpitations, shortness of breath, tremors and was soaked in perspiration. I rushed her to the emergency room and they moved her straight into intensive care. She got the all clear this afternoon and when I went to collect her I asked the doctor what had happened. He told me that as near as they could determine she had had an orgasm.
Stunned, I asked for a second opinion as I think we are all agreed here, the female orgasm is just an urban legend. Well Dr Quacky McQuack was having none of it and threw me out.
The Italians say that revenge is a dish best served cold and revenge will be mine when they discover that the Coffee Bitch prints his own medical insurance cards. Anyone dumb enough to call the insurance verification number (1 800 SPA NKME) is going to hear me saying “Yes the Boss is covered for everything so throw in a couple of extra MRIs and why don’t you lift the fun bags and give her a little nip tuck on the old special place, on us”
Suckers
Coffee Bitch 1. Medical Profession 0
Sadly, last night the boss was taken very ill. She awoke with heart palpitations, shortness of breath, tremors and was soaked in perspiration. I rushed her to the emergency room and they moved her straight into intensive care. She got the all clear this afternoon and when I went to collect her I asked the doctor what had happened. He told me that as near as they could determine she had had an orgasm.
Stunned, I asked for a second opinion as I think we are all agreed here, the female orgasm is just an urban legend. Well Dr Quacky McQuack was having none of it and threw me out.
The Italians say that revenge is a dish best served cold and revenge will be mine when they discover that the Coffee Bitch prints his own medical insurance cards. Anyone dumb enough to call the insurance verification number (1 800 SPA NKME) is going to hear me saying “Yes the Boss is covered for everything so throw in a couple of extra MRIs and why don’t you lift the fun bags and give her a little nip tuck on the old special place, on us”
Suckers
Coffee Bitch 1. Medical Profession 0
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Coffee and the age of innocence
It has to be said that Smalltown, Virginia has a dearth of what might be called fine dining restaurants. This is the only thing I miss about the DC Metro area as I have always been an oral retentive (thanks for nothing Mummy). Anyway, if you have a major family celebration coming up you are pretty much going to end up in Applebees. Of course for some even Applebees is too lavish and I once saw a wedding reception in Burger King. It was quite a nice affair and the young bride, who must have been all of 20, was accompanied to the register by her 6 children in bridesmaids bib jeans. Having just got inked up myself I look out for tattoos and this bride had a beauty. Right across the back her neck it said, “Let go of my ears I know what I’m doing”. I digress.
So the boss and I are in Applebees, accompanied by fruit of the loin 1 and fruit of the loin 2. Purely by chance this was all you can eat ribs night and these suckers were about to regret the night they met the coffee bitch. Hours later I was done but covered in barbeque sauce. Moist towlettes being too upper class for the Smalltown Applebees I turned to the boss and asked if she had any. Of course she did (I once asked if she had 5cl of chainsaw oil and she did, I didn’t use it as it was 5W/30 and I needed 10W/25). I ripped open the sachet and cleaned up real nice. With an odd look on her face, fruit of the loin 1 asked the boss if that was Summer Eve. The boss just smiled and imperceptibly nodded her head. This caused FOTL1 and FOTL 2 to howl with laughter and the surrounding servers to nudge each other and wink. Alarm bells started to ring and I read the instructions on the packet. OH MY GOD! That is disgusting, I had no idea such things even existed. OK we are out of here to do something manly before this stuff sinks into my bloodstream and I start to ovulate.
I guess that I must be the only person who doesn’t know what Summer Eve is. We had to pass the bar to get to the exit and picking up the scent a hairy arsed old biker blew me a kiss as I ran out.
Pass the Clorox
So the boss and I are in Applebees, accompanied by fruit of the loin 1 and fruit of the loin 2. Purely by chance this was all you can eat ribs night and these suckers were about to regret the night they met the coffee bitch. Hours later I was done but covered in barbeque sauce. Moist towlettes being too upper class for the Smalltown Applebees I turned to the boss and asked if she had any. Of course she did (I once asked if she had 5cl of chainsaw oil and she did, I didn’t use it as it was 5W/30 and I needed 10W/25). I ripped open the sachet and cleaned up real nice. With an odd look on her face, fruit of the loin 1 asked the boss if that was Summer Eve. The boss just smiled and imperceptibly nodded her head. This caused FOTL1 and FOTL 2 to howl with laughter and the surrounding servers to nudge each other and wink. Alarm bells started to ring and I read the instructions on the packet. OH MY GOD! That is disgusting, I had no idea such things even existed. OK we are out of here to do something manly before this stuff sinks into my bloodstream and I start to ovulate.
I guess that I must be the only person who doesn’t know what Summer Eve is. We had to pass the bar to get to the exit and picking up the scent a hairy arsed old biker blew me a kiss as I ran out.
Pass the Clorox
Saturday, August 19, 2006
The Coffee Bitch rants
I used to drive a Chrysler 300M it was a cracking piece of kit and a joy to drive. I have always been completely anal about my cars so even when it was a few years old it looked new. Sadly Chrysler gave the 300 series a face-lift and so as a previous model it had to go. Life has a way of being cruel like that. Recently I saw a 2007 model in a parking lot and it really is a credit to Chrysler Daimler Benz or whoever makes this thing. Sadly I also saw something that really raised my hackles. The owner had taken two bumper stickers, cut them to size and stuck them to the side rear windows. Now this beautiful car says “Yeah it’s got a hemi”. Let us take a moment to examine this. Do you even know what a hemi is? Of course you don’t you moron. What you have just told the world is that you spent close to $40k on a car with an engine designed in 1948 and obsoleted in the 80’s. Whilst the rest of the world moved on with a penthead you have a hemispherical head and guess what? Your pride and joy will never ever have more than two valves per cylinder and thus it will never breathe properly. Not only did you buy the company’s rhetoric rather than the performance you proudly announce to the world that you got screwed. Way to go buddy. By the way, don’t believe me? Here is some shameless plagarism from http://auto.howstuffworks.com/hemi.htm.
If HEMI engines have all these advantages, why aren't all engines using hemispherical heads? It's because there are even better configurations available today.
One thing that a hemispherical head will never have is four valves per cylinder. The valve angles would be so crazy that the head would be nearly impossible to design. Having only two valves per cylinder is not an issue in drag racing or NASCAR because racing engines are limited to two valves per cylinder in these categories. But on the street, four slightly smaller valves let an engine breathe easier than two large valves. Modern engines use a pentroof design to accommodate four valves.
Another reason most high-performance engines no longer use a HEMI design is the desire to create a smaller combustion chamber. Small chambers further reduce the heat lost during combustion, and also shorten the distance the flame front must travel during combustion. The compact pentroof design is helpful here, as well.
Now I am in rant mode here are a couple more. When you are driving, yes you in the 300M moron, stay in the right lane unless overtaking. After you overtake look in the shiny thing called mirror. If you can see both the car’s headlights it is safe to move right again. If you are overtaken on the right then you are a moron. Do not under any circumstances potter along in the left lane thumbing your anus with your brain in neutral.
The next three rules and rants are for the benefit of drivers on the Capital Beltway I495.
1. It is illegal to use your indicators, they are for ornamental purposes only. If you need to cut across 4 lanes of traffic to get to your exit just do it. Other motorists will be happy to hit the brakes and make room for you.
2. It is also illegal to use the mirror. The rule of the road is that if you are slightly ahead of the people on either side then you have right of way. Just do it.
3. It is illegal to leave a safe braking distance between you and the car in front. If you leave a car’s length plus 2 inches a car on either side will have to fill that space. In order to avoid ramming the car in front he will dab his brakes. You will hit your brakes harder and the car behind you harder still. This is called the ripple effect and within 10 cars the beltway will stop. Clearly it is better for all if everyone tailgates at 70 mph.
People of North Virginia , South Maryland and DC, you deserve this mess enjoy it.
If HEMI engines have all these advantages, why aren't all engines using hemispherical heads? It's because there are even better configurations available today.
One thing that a hemispherical head will never have is four valves per cylinder. The valve angles would be so crazy that the head would be nearly impossible to design. Having only two valves per cylinder is not an issue in drag racing or NASCAR because racing engines are limited to two valves per cylinder in these categories. But on the street, four slightly smaller valves let an engine breathe easier than two large valves. Modern engines use a pentroof design to accommodate four valves.
Another reason most high-performance engines no longer use a HEMI design is the desire to create a smaller combustion chamber. Small chambers further reduce the heat lost during combustion, and also shorten the distance the flame front must travel during combustion. The compact pentroof design is helpful here, as well.
Now I am in rant mode here are a couple more. When you are driving, yes you in the 300M moron, stay in the right lane unless overtaking. After you overtake look in the shiny thing called mirror. If you can see both the car’s headlights it is safe to move right again. If you are overtaken on the right then you are a moron. Do not under any circumstances potter along in the left lane thumbing your anus with your brain in neutral.
The next three rules and rants are for the benefit of drivers on the Capital Beltway I495.
1. It is illegal to use your indicators, they are for ornamental purposes only. If you need to cut across 4 lanes of traffic to get to your exit just do it. Other motorists will be happy to hit the brakes and make room for you.
2. It is also illegal to use the mirror. The rule of the road is that if you are slightly ahead of the people on either side then you have right of way. Just do it.
3. It is illegal to leave a safe braking distance between you and the car in front. If you leave a car’s length plus 2 inches a car on either side will have to fill that space. In order to avoid ramming the car in front he will dab his brakes. You will hit your brakes harder and the car behind you harder still. This is called the ripple effect and within 10 cars the beltway will stop. Clearly it is better for all if everyone tailgates at 70 mph.
People of North Virginia , South Maryland and DC, you deserve this mess enjoy it.
Coffee and the Bathroom secret
This should really be called Beer and the Bathroom secret but that doesn’t really scan.
It is not unknown for the boss and I to retire to a local tavern and tie one on as we used to say in England. So the other night we were once again abusing our livers when the boss announces that she needs a bathroom break. For the longest time I have been in awe of ladies that use public restrooms or more correctly ladies who hover. You girls know what I am talking about but for the benefit of any pre pubescent males reading this, let me explain. When ladies visit a public bathroom they hover over the pan without actually touching anything. I cannot imagine the strain on your thighs but well done you. For me, after 8 pints of Milwaukee’s finest I can barely walk to the bathroom let alone hover. My patented technique is what I refer to as the tripod. This comprises of spreading my legs and then leaning forward until my forehead touches the tiled wall. There is something very reassuring about the cool feel of tile on my fevered brow. Anyway this locks me in place so no matter how much the room sways I am good. The addition bonus is that I now have both hands free to search for the maggot before the bladder seal prematurely bursts.
So the boss returns suitably drained and once again I tell her how I admire that old squat and hover stuff when she tells me that she doesn’t do that anymore. Really why is that I ask. She replied “Well I realized that it isn’t me who is going to be licking the backs of my thighs later tonight”.
Pass the Listerine.
It is not unknown for the boss and I to retire to a local tavern and tie one on as we used to say in England. So the other night we were once again abusing our livers when the boss announces that she needs a bathroom break. For the longest time I have been in awe of ladies that use public restrooms or more correctly ladies who hover. You girls know what I am talking about but for the benefit of any pre pubescent males reading this, let me explain. When ladies visit a public bathroom they hover over the pan without actually touching anything. I cannot imagine the strain on your thighs but well done you. For me, after 8 pints of Milwaukee’s finest I can barely walk to the bathroom let alone hover. My patented technique is what I refer to as the tripod. This comprises of spreading my legs and then leaning forward until my forehead touches the tiled wall. There is something very reassuring about the cool feel of tile on my fevered brow. Anyway this locks me in place so no matter how much the room sways I am good. The addition bonus is that I now have both hands free to search for the maggot before the bladder seal prematurely bursts.
So the boss returns suitably drained and once again I tell her how I admire that old squat and hover stuff when she tells me that she doesn’t do that anymore. Really why is that I ask. She replied “Well I realized that it isn’t me who is going to be licking the backs of my thighs later tonight”.
Pass the Listerine.
Coffee bitch v Sam Walton
As a coffee bitch I have a corporate membership to Sam’s Club in Bigtown, Virginia. It earns old Sam Walton an extra $65 a year and is supposed to give me many extra benefits. The only extra that I seem to get is that I am allowed in an hour before the general public. This is not such a bad deal as the hoi polloi of Bigtown really are an unwashed, unshaven bunch of scallywags (and that is just the women). However the downside of the deal is that when the great unwashed are allowed to slither in, Sammy brings out all the hot sample stuff that is denied to the people who paid extra to join the club. This free stuff is great, just like IHOP but without the cash register. I normally take several different tops, a couple of hats and a few shades and just go around in circles until I am satiated. Then I wobble off, full and flatulent for a spot of shopping. That is the normal plan but today things went horribly wrong and then got worse. Due to my oafish excesses last night we arrived at Sam’s just as Cletus and Darlene Scumbag were being let in but BEFORE the food was let out. What a nightmare. I hung around my favorite aisle (the one that normally has the French toast and sausage) and quietly whimpered as my stomach growled “Hey coffee bitch where’s breakfast?”. The boss clearly disgusted with my pathetic sobbing sent me off to the darkest corner of Sam’s to find the desiccated cat excrement or some other improbable ingredient. Of course this was the one aisle that was closed whilst a forklift restocked the shelves that no one can reach anyway. Spotting the cat crap I ducked under the no entry sign and just as I was about to grab the tin a voice said “Hey Dummy can’t you read?”. Looking up I spot an officious looking twit in a nice new blue vest. “Of course I can read” I reply “That is why I don’t have to stock shelves in Sam’s Club”
Coffee Bitch 1 Sam Walton 0
Sadly the story does not end there. We are at the check out and once again I am being taunted by one of the floozies in blue. I can tell she is up for it and showing way to much cleavage. I react in the normal manner and coolly slip into slither mode. Only later did we realize that this was just a part of Sam’s dastardly plan. While I was suitably distracted another shyster hit up the boss with promises of upgrading our business membership with all sorts of non applicable nonsense. When the boss asked how much she went off ostensibly to get more information. Of course she never returned and as the boss flicked through the receipt she spotted that the old snake oil saleswoman had used her wireless device to hit us up for $49.99. Well there are some things that you just don’t do to the boss and rip her off is one of them. I was sent off to load up the truck whilst she mounted her broomstick and went off to torture the manager. I really wanted to watch but I knew it would be a walkover. Sure enough within two minutes she was truckside with $50 in one hand and a full set of male genitalia in the other.
Boss 1 Sam Walton 0
By the way if you are upstairs reading this Sam I hope you are spinning in your quicklime. This is no way to treat customers you reprehensible old fraud.
Anyone know where Costco is?
Coffee Bitch 1 Sam Walton 0
Sadly the story does not end there. We are at the check out and once again I am being taunted by one of the floozies in blue. I can tell she is up for it and showing way to much cleavage. I react in the normal manner and coolly slip into slither mode. Only later did we realize that this was just a part of Sam’s dastardly plan. While I was suitably distracted another shyster hit up the boss with promises of upgrading our business membership with all sorts of non applicable nonsense. When the boss asked how much she went off ostensibly to get more information. Of course she never returned and as the boss flicked through the receipt she spotted that the old snake oil saleswoman had used her wireless device to hit us up for $49.99. Well there are some things that you just don’t do to the boss and rip her off is one of them. I was sent off to load up the truck whilst she mounted her broomstick and went off to torture the manager. I really wanted to watch but I knew it would be a walkover. Sure enough within two minutes she was truckside with $50 in one hand and a full set of male genitalia in the other.
Boss 1 Sam Walton 0
By the way if you are upstairs reading this Sam I hope you are spinning in your quicklime. This is no way to treat customers you reprehensible old fraud.
Anyone know where Costco is?
Coffee and love
The Coffee Bitch is in love. Not that nasty sweaty love that involves aerosols of whipped cream, assorted kitchen utensils and that awful feeling of remorse afterwards. No this is the best love, pure, ascetic and of course unrequited. So who could have so easily melted the Coffee Bitch’s cold and cynical heart? I have absolutely no idea. All I know is that she is 22 (a mere baby) and a Canadian, which is rather like being an American with a brain.
Allow me to explain. It is 1:30 Saturday morning and I should be tucked up alongside the boss for tomorrow I have to drive to Bigtown, Virginia to stock up on supplies for next week. Sadly for me I am currently having an argument with Bacchus and I am messing with this little blog instead of recharging my batteries in anticipation of a fun packed morning at Sam’s Club. Having just finished the latest sad episode I saw to my great surprise that someone had left a comment and unbelievably she likes my scribbles. So Genben you are the new Meg Ryan. If you read Coffee and the art of Freezer Maintenance you will see why our love must remain unrequited, this wretched Coffee Shop has a lot to answer for. Of course all this begs two questions,
Does a Brit living in the US need a visa to get into Canada?
Is stalking a crime in Canada?
So if you Canadians spot a lost and lonely person in a brown apron with a latte in one hand and a freezer thermostat in the other, be nice it is just the coffee bitch on a walkaround. Now I need to snuggle up to the boss and get her to sign a vacation form before she wakes up.
O Canada! Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise, The True North strong and free!
From far and wide, O Canada, We stand on guard for thee.
God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
Allow me to explain. It is 1:30 Saturday morning and I should be tucked up alongside the boss for tomorrow I have to drive to Bigtown, Virginia to stock up on supplies for next week. Sadly for me I am currently having an argument with Bacchus and I am messing with this little blog instead of recharging my batteries in anticipation of a fun packed morning at Sam’s Club. Having just finished the latest sad episode I saw to my great surprise that someone had left a comment and unbelievably she likes my scribbles. So Genben you are the new Meg Ryan. If you read Coffee and the art of Freezer Maintenance you will see why our love must remain unrequited, this wretched Coffee Shop has a lot to answer for. Of course all this begs two questions,
Does a Brit living in the US need a visa to get into Canada?
Is stalking a crime in Canada?
So if you Canadians spot a lost and lonely person in a brown apron with a latte in one hand and a freezer thermostat in the other, be nice it is just the coffee bitch on a walkaround. Now I need to snuggle up to the boss and get her to sign a vacation form before she wakes up.
O Canada! Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise, The True North strong and free!
From far and wide, O Canada, We stand on guard for thee.
God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Coffee and the art of freezer maintenance
In an earlier post I realize that I was unwarrently generous in my comments regarding the previous owner. It appears that she did not perform a scrap of maintenance in the last 5 years. We actually spent 5 days just hauling trash out of this place before we could open. Have you ever woken up on a Saturday morning only to discover that the object of last night's lust has been removed and the ugly bus has delivered a hideous replacement. That is pretty much what we felt like the next day after buying this money sink. Almost every piece of equipment had at least one problem and the chilled display cabinet was so completely and utterly shagged it had just been unplugged and sat in the middle of the shop looking dark and malevolent. I poked and proded her relentlesly but eventually gave up on the beast and found a man to fix it. I suspect that he had been stiffed regularly by the previous owner as I had to practically kidnap him to get him out and even then promise him cash up front. So he fixed the chiller and I fixed the lights. Now the chiller is a proud and haughty beauty and the boss's pastries actually look more than edible. So as we stock the place up the boss realizes that we need more refrigeration and it falls on me to plug in the last chiller in the kitchen. Based on past experience I just knew that one of two things was about to happen. 1. Nothing at all or 2. At the instant of the plug touching the socket there would be a huge explosion and my right arm would be blown off. Interestingly enough I tickled this thing with some volts and the compressor chugged into life, the cabinet gave a shudder like a bear waking from hibernation and I just stood there with a slack jawed expression like a retard failing a GED. Incredibly something actually works and works and oh God it won’t stop working. The temperature gauge started spinning counter clockwise as the shop headed for zero degrees Kelvin. No problem I cry, ever the optimist, I will just tweak the thermostat. Now remember this is an industrial chiller made entirely from corrosion free aluminum with of course the exception of the thermostat which was apparently made entirely of ferrous oxide. Can you guess what happened next? Of course you can. Now I have to kill the beast before it turns the kitchen into Antartica, so to steady myself I put my left hand on the sluice sink tap and with my right hand I pull the plug. I lean across the chiller which is now covered in a thin layer of condensation and my fingers wrap around the plug and make contact with the live pin. Have you ever had an electric shock? Well this was nothing like that, this was like being strapped into Old Sparky at Leavenworth. I immediately shot bolt upright and smashed my head into the pot shelf sending all sorts of cooking stuff everywhere. The noise was so scary that I ducked for cover and cracked my nose on the top of the chiller. The agony was so confusing that I tried to stand up again but this time with the presence of mind to swivel around the pot shelf. Unfortunately this just had the effect of aligning my genitals with the handle of the chiller door. At this point I took the only wise option and fainted, which actually worked well as it caused my finger to fall out of the socket. Here is a thing. Only a woman can survey this complete and utter devastation and blood, not spot my family jewels swinging lazily from the chiller door handle and in all innocence ask how things are going. No problem boss I’m on it.
Five days later it is high noon. I have the new thermostat. I stand at one end of the kitchen with a steely glint on my eye and a Philips head screwdriver in my hand. The Beverage-Aire is there at the other end just waiting. Suddenly I am reminded of the first time a woman was slutty enough to give it up for an oaf like me. A mixture of anticipation, fear and the certain knowledge that I had not got a clue what to do next. I just knew that I had to get the outer wrapping off and dig somewhere into the middle of this beast. So just like that (n)ever to be forgotten night some 30 years ago I jumped in with both feet. Off came the back cover, damn that was not it. Off with the sides, bugger not there either. OK here goes the top (Ah that takes me back) but still no joy. God where is it? I know it is in here somewhere. Finally I have this old bitch completely shucked down, she is stripped to the chassis and nothing. Come on you bitch give it up you know you want it. SHOW ME THE WAY HOME MAMA. Finally through tears of rage and frustration I peer in to the heart of this cold whore and see a little plate with a label that reads “To change the thermostat remove this cover”. What the #$%^ it was there all the time and to rub salt into my many wounds the cover is held on with thumbscrews, I didn’t even need the GD MoFo screwdriver. Cutting a long story short I did it and it worked and unlike that first night the Beverage-Aire didn’t ask if the thermostat was in yet.
Cofee bitch 1 ; Beverage-Aire 0
Five days later it is high noon. I have the new thermostat. I stand at one end of the kitchen with a steely glint on my eye and a Philips head screwdriver in my hand. The Beverage-Aire is there at the other end just waiting. Suddenly I am reminded of the first time a woman was slutty enough to give it up for an oaf like me. A mixture of anticipation, fear and the certain knowledge that I had not got a clue what to do next. I just knew that I had to get the outer wrapping off and dig somewhere into the middle of this beast. So just like that (n)ever to be forgotten night some 30 years ago I jumped in with both feet. Off came the back cover, damn that was not it. Off with the sides, bugger not there either. OK here goes the top (Ah that takes me back) but still no joy. God where is it? I know it is in here somewhere. Finally I have this old bitch completely shucked down, she is stripped to the chassis and nothing. Come on you bitch give it up you know you want it. SHOW ME THE WAY HOME MAMA. Finally through tears of rage and frustration I peer in to the heart of this cold whore and see a little plate with a label that reads “To change the thermostat remove this cover”. What the #$%^ it was there all the time and to rub salt into my many wounds the cover is held on with thumbscrews, I didn’t even need the GD MoFo screwdriver. Cutting a long story short I did it and it worked and unlike that first night the Beverage-Aire didn’t ask if the thermostat was in yet.
Cofee bitch 1 ; Beverage-Aire 0
Coffee and Flowers
Outside the shop we have three planters with geraniums in. I am the first to admit that they are no great shakes but hey this is Smalltown not Kew Gardens. So my question today is what possesses a good looking woman to smoke in the first place, but secondly why would you stub out your snout in my planter? Listen dummy I have to clean that crap up and I am not your maid I am your coffee bitch. In addition I work damned hard to get those worthless plants to bloom and having spent all of $1.99 in the Walmarts (as we say in the south) I refuse to watch them die of petal cancer thanks to you. So here is the deal, next time I catch you stubbing out your butt in my planter I will stub out my geranium in your butt. Get it?
Coffee and Old People
Many of our customers are old people and I really like old people. Actually that is not strictly true. I like American old people, I hate old British people. Americans are fun, they enjoy life, they celebrate their oldness, in fact they are just like young people in old people's clothes. British wrinklies, on the other hand, are just miserable. They will always start a conversation with one of two facts. Either "I fought in the war for you". To which I reply "No you didn't, I wasn't even born in the 40's. In any case I am willing to bet you spent the entire war peeling potatoes in Kettering". The other stunning introduction is "I'm 83 years old you know". Well a) I don't care and b) Hurry up and die because you are using oxygen that my children need.
Now American crumblies are fun and I usually suck up to them. Of course we all realize that this is harmless flirtation (I hope to God we realize). Although it saddens me that I used to do this stuff with 20 year olds and now I am flexing my pecs at Granny. C'est la guerre.
Of course sometimes these fun loving old relics get one over on me. This week I was passing one of the livliest old girls when she dropped the most monster of farts. Now if you have ever heard and seen a hippo farting you will know where I am going. A hippo is unique in as much as its anus seems to have labial lips. This means that when it lets rip everything vibrates in a delicious moistness that vibrates and flatulates for about 30 seconds. Well granny dropped this monster just as I walked past and sent me scurrying into the back room to chew on a napkin to muffle the sounds of my laughter. Having sorted myself out and grown up I walked out into the shop and incredibly the old girl did it again. Once again I hightailed it into the back room on the verge of wetting myself. This time the boss caught me and demanded to know what I thought I was doing being so foul in front of the customers. I choked out the fact that it wasn't me but rather the flatus factory on table four. The boss then explained that each time it happened the old bag looked at the table opposite, looked at my departing back, looked disgusted and then fanned her nose with her hand. Way to pass the buck granny I nearly lost my job thanks to your tired out old sphincter.
So she finished her lunch and then waddled of to abuse the facilities by taking a monster dump. Lo and behold she emerges 15 minutes later and the old man then tag teams her and spends another 10 minutes in there. I suppose I should be grateful that they both voided their foul and stinking colons but at the same time I have to clean the crapper and that is no party I can tell you. I am thinking of posting a sign that says that this facility is for emergency urination purposes only. If you wish to defecate please clench and waddle home (After paying your bill).
Still they must have enjoyed their lunch as they both insisted on shaking my hand on the way out. Their hands were remarkably dry so either they dried well or more probably didn't wash their hands in the first place. I hate faeces fingers more than I hate British pensioners.
Toodle Pip
Now American crumblies are fun and I usually suck up to them. Of course we all realize that this is harmless flirtation (I hope to God we realize). Although it saddens me that I used to do this stuff with 20 year olds and now I am flexing my pecs at Granny. C'est la guerre.
Of course sometimes these fun loving old relics get one over on me. This week I was passing one of the livliest old girls when she dropped the most monster of farts. Now if you have ever heard and seen a hippo farting you will know where I am going. A hippo is unique in as much as its anus seems to have labial lips. This means that when it lets rip everything vibrates in a delicious moistness that vibrates and flatulates for about 30 seconds. Well granny dropped this monster just as I walked past and sent me scurrying into the back room to chew on a napkin to muffle the sounds of my laughter. Having sorted myself out and grown up I walked out into the shop and incredibly the old girl did it again. Once again I hightailed it into the back room on the verge of wetting myself. This time the boss caught me and demanded to know what I thought I was doing being so foul in front of the customers. I choked out the fact that it wasn't me but rather the flatus factory on table four. The boss then explained that each time it happened the old bag looked at the table opposite, looked at my departing back, looked disgusted and then fanned her nose with her hand. Way to pass the buck granny I nearly lost my job thanks to your tired out old sphincter.
So she finished her lunch and then waddled of to abuse the facilities by taking a monster dump. Lo and behold she emerges 15 minutes later and the old man then tag teams her and spends another 10 minutes in there. I suppose I should be grateful that they both voided their foul and stinking colons but at the same time I have to clean the crapper and that is no party I can tell you. I am thinking of posting a sign that says that this facility is for emergency urination purposes only. If you wish to defecate please clench and waddle home (After paying your bill).
Still they must have enjoyed their lunch as they both insisted on shaking my hand on the way out. Their hands were remarkably dry so either they dried well or more probably didn't wash their hands in the first place. I hate faeces fingers more than I hate British pensioners.
Toodle Pip
Coffee and the law part II
July 4th we decided to do the decent thing and offer the local constabulary a free breakfast. Well ahead of time we sent a nice invitation off and on the day we opened at 7:00 and waited, and waited, and waited. We closed at 12:00 having seen exactly no one. I can't imagine what plod was doing that was better than a free breakfast but I suspect that they were probably bumping uglies. My suspicions were confirmed the next day when I spotted the town sniffer dog walking like she was chewing a toffee with her arse cheeks. Anyone want to buy a donut?
Coffee and the law
Our little shop is located next to the Smalltown Courthouse so you can imagine many of our customers are attorneys and I find it ironic that as a profession these people are reviled but as human beings they are actually kind of nice people. We have a group of three from the town famous firm of Sue, Grabbit and Runne and another group from the rival firm of Hemmer and Royd. I love this southern good ol' boy banter and it is always fun to hear insults thrown across the room "Well I see yawl stopped practicing law, An' now yowze defendin' the innerests of the paw downtroddin' insurance companies". I can't wait for the first food fight. Sticky Buns at 20 paces, it's not quite Victoriana but it brighten up another dull day of trying to flog lattes to luddites.
Yesterday a real nice gentleman introduced himself as Bobby and complemented us on the food. After a brief chat he paid and left. A visiting attorney asked if I knew who that was. I replied "Yes someone called Bobby". "Well actually that was his Honor Judge Smith". I must say I was impressed. I thought Judges were aloof, nasty and above us mortals but here was a charming and pleasant human being. Unfortunately for me I suffer from prosopagnosia so I have no idea who he will be should he visit us again. On reflection this is probably a good thing as in an orgy of unashamed groveling I would probably end up serving him on bended knees and pre masticating his sandwich. In any case I hope he recognises me as this should stand me in good stead when the local boys in blue finally realize that I am indeed Smalltown's phantom flasher.
One disadvantage of our location is that we have a hospital nearby. Everytime the ambulance is called out half my customers walk out. I need a new sign. Attorneys, please pay before chasing.
Yesterday a real nice gentleman introduced himself as Bobby and complemented us on the food. After a brief chat he paid and left. A visiting attorney asked if I knew who that was. I replied "Yes someone called Bobby". "Well actually that was his Honor Judge Smith". I must say I was impressed. I thought Judges were aloof, nasty and above us mortals but here was a charming and pleasant human being. Unfortunately for me I suffer from prosopagnosia so I have no idea who he will be should he visit us again. On reflection this is probably a good thing as in an orgy of unashamed groveling I would probably end up serving him on bended knees and pre masticating his sandwich. In any case I hope he recognises me as this should stand me in good stead when the local boys in blue finally realize that I am indeed Smalltown's phantom flasher.
One disadvantage of our location is that we have a hospital nearby. Everytime the ambulance is called out half my customers walk out. I need a new sign. Attorneys, please pay before chasing.
Of Coffee and God
Preamble,
Where I come from we have no separation of church and state in fact the head of the church IS the head of state. This means that you have an unfortunate chance of being educated in a state run church based school and indeed this was my fate. My only consolation is that it was a church of England school and not a catholic school. From what I hear those nuns with their rulers across the back of the hands would have turned me into a flagellant and I have enough problems without having to squeeze into a leather basque squealing "Mercy mistress, mercy". One of the problems of being force fed religion by wizened old crones with hair on their upper lips and evil in their hearts is that it tends to push you (me) well away from any form of church. Despite learning the ritual by rote I now realize that I never once understood this Holy trinity nonsense. What is it about the Father, Son and Holy Ghost? Holy Ghost? What is that about? Who died, OK OK apart from Jesus. These days I admit that I know so little about religion I don't know if I am an agnostic or an atheist. This is actually a bad thing as we seem to be living on the buckle of the bible belt. When we first arrived within two days we had been asked three time if we had found a good church. (And of course been invited to several). I don't really mind have God thrust upon me but I wonder what would happen if I asked people if they had found a good topless bar yet, and then invited them to join mine.
Part One,
Shortly after we opened a holy man came in for a cup of coffee. I have an instinctive trust in the title reverend and this old boy seemed to be the genuine article. It transpired that he helps orphans in Honduras by selling their coffee. He left us a couple of pounds and it really was rather jolly stuff. Weeks later he returned with the sales pitch and it was good. So now we get a great deal on coffee and the profits go to the orphans, a win win situation. So do I have to go to church and kneel in order to suck up to the big guy upstairs? I hope not.
Part two,
As you can imagine we get all flavors of holy in the coffee shop and by and large they a thoroughly decent bunch. Last week I was expounding my quasi religious nonsense that all paths lead to the Great Architect of the Universe and Christians, Muslins, Hindus et al were all on different roads to the same destination. The pastor looked at me very strangely and left, we haven't seem him or his family since. I truly hope that I didn't inadvertently offend him but I suspect I did. This is another reason that I steer clear of organized religion.
Part three,
Apropos nothing at all I went to a catholic wedding last year. I know nothing about church weddings and even less about catholic weddings. Fortunately for me a real nice couple, Marty and Gloria were also invited so I knew that fun and frivolity would ensue during the day and evening. Just before the ceremony started I was intrigued by a mechanical contraption in front of the pew. By messing and messing with it I finally realized that is was a platform to be lowered before kneeling. Now if you have not been to a catholic wedding let me tell you that you are up and down like a bride's nightdress. After the umpteenth session on knees I decided that was it and I raised our kneeling platform, Marty looked at me, assumed that I knew what I was doing and raised their one. Well of course within seconds some secret word that only Catholics know was said and down everyone went again. Gloria who for some reason assumed that the kneeler was still there went straight down and ended up sliding under the pew. I lowered my grovel pad and once again Marty took his cue from me effectively jamming Gloria in place. The spectacle of G's arms and legs flapping 19 to the dozen, coupled with the general boredom of the proceedings just about cracked me up. For the rest of the ceremony I just had to focus on Margaret Thatcher's pudenda to avoid wetting myself. By the way how is it a Catholic priest can turn a wedding into such a miserable occasion? All that whining about the sins of the flesh. Personally I would rather go to an Anglican funeral than a Catholic wedding.
Addendum 1.
A year later Gloria is having to undergo reconstructive knee surgery. I do hope that my antics with the grovel pad didn't start that off. Now I am riddled with guilt. Perhaps as punishment God is turning me into a Catholic.
Addendum 2.
Marty is the smartest guy I know. He has a Ph.D. , a razor sharp wit and a great way with words. In fact is really is a bit of a cunning linguist. So at the reception I told him my favorite joke.
Doctor, Doctor, I've got a strawberry stuck up my arse.
Doctor: Don't worry I have some cream for that.
Marty looked at me, looked at Gloria, looked at me and said "What?"
Colonial peasant.
Where I come from we have no separation of church and state in fact the head of the church IS the head of state. This means that you have an unfortunate chance of being educated in a state run church based school and indeed this was my fate. My only consolation is that it was a church of England school and not a catholic school. From what I hear those nuns with their rulers across the back of the hands would have turned me into a flagellant and I have enough problems without having to squeeze into a leather basque squealing "Mercy mistress, mercy". One of the problems of being force fed religion by wizened old crones with hair on their upper lips and evil in their hearts is that it tends to push you (me) well away from any form of church. Despite learning the ritual by rote I now realize that I never once understood this Holy trinity nonsense. What is it about the Father, Son and Holy Ghost? Holy Ghost? What is that about? Who died, OK OK apart from Jesus. These days I admit that I know so little about religion I don't know if I am an agnostic or an atheist. This is actually a bad thing as we seem to be living on the buckle of the bible belt. When we first arrived within two days we had been asked three time if we had found a good church. (And of course been invited to several). I don't really mind have God thrust upon me but I wonder what would happen if I asked people if they had found a good topless bar yet, and then invited them to join mine.
Part One,
Shortly after we opened a holy man came in for a cup of coffee. I have an instinctive trust in the title reverend and this old boy seemed to be the genuine article. It transpired that he helps orphans in Honduras by selling their coffee. He left us a couple of pounds and it really was rather jolly stuff. Weeks later he returned with the sales pitch and it was good. So now we get a great deal on coffee and the profits go to the orphans, a win win situation. So do I have to go to church and kneel in order to suck up to the big guy upstairs? I hope not.
Part two,
As you can imagine we get all flavors of holy in the coffee shop and by and large they a thoroughly decent bunch. Last week I was expounding my quasi religious nonsense that all paths lead to the Great Architect of the Universe and Christians, Muslins, Hindus et al were all on different roads to the same destination. The pastor looked at me very strangely and left, we haven't seem him or his family since. I truly hope that I didn't inadvertently offend him but I suspect I did. This is another reason that I steer clear of organized religion.
Part three,
Apropos nothing at all I went to a catholic wedding last year. I know nothing about church weddings and even less about catholic weddings. Fortunately for me a real nice couple, Marty and Gloria were also invited so I knew that fun and frivolity would ensue during the day and evening. Just before the ceremony started I was intrigued by a mechanical contraption in front of the pew. By messing and messing with it I finally realized that is was a platform to be lowered before kneeling. Now if you have not been to a catholic wedding let me tell you that you are up and down like a bride's nightdress. After the umpteenth session on knees I decided that was it and I raised our kneeling platform, Marty looked at me, assumed that I knew what I was doing and raised their one. Well of course within seconds some secret word that only Catholics know was said and down everyone went again. Gloria who for some reason assumed that the kneeler was still there went straight down and ended up sliding under the pew. I lowered my grovel pad and once again Marty took his cue from me effectively jamming Gloria in place. The spectacle of G's arms and legs flapping 19 to the dozen, coupled with the general boredom of the proceedings just about cracked me up. For the rest of the ceremony I just had to focus on Margaret Thatcher's pudenda to avoid wetting myself. By the way how is it a Catholic priest can turn a wedding into such a miserable occasion? All that whining about the sins of the flesh. Personally I would rather go to an Anglican funeral than a Catholic wedding.
Addendum 1.
A year later Gloria is having to undergo reconstructive knee surgery. I do hope that my antics with the grovel pad didn't start that off. Now I am riddled with guilt. Perhaps as punishment God is turning me into a Catholic.
Addendum 2.
Marty is the smartest guy I know. He has a Ph.D. , a razor sharp wit and a great way with words. In fact is really is a bit of a cunning linguist. So at the reception I told him my favorite joke.
Doctor, Doctor, I've got a strawberry stuck up my arse.
Doctor: Don't worry I have some cream for that.
Marty looked at me, looked at Gloria, looked at me and said "What?"
Colonial peasant.
The Coffee Shop
When you buy any business you should perform what is known as due diligence. You can pay a consultant to do this for you or you can look at the last 5 years of tax returns, check the assets and be a mystery shopper, hanging around the shop and observing the trade. Well it didn't take an MBA to realize within the first 30 seconds that this place was shot. Every year the returns grew dimmer and dimmer and whenever we made our sneak raids the damned place was shut. Eventually a visit coincided with one of the few moments of the day when the place was open and we ventured in. I have had colder welcomes but I really can't remember when, this was like I had offered the head rabbi a bacon sandwich. Whilst we sat with our nasty cappuccinos some sad lady wandered in looking for a lunch, at 11:45 she was told "I don't start lunch until 12:00". She left and took her money with her. Clearly this place is going to need a lot of work. So here we were about to buy the assets of the business and the goodwill. The assets looked like they all needed a bath in Clorox and the goodwill was clearly a negative quantity. Any sensible person would have run like a jack rabbit and found a more wholesome career cleaning sewers or squeezing boils. We, of course, made and offer there and then.
In search of Smalltown America
Just like every other immigrant we arrived in the US looking for a better way of life. Actually even that is not quite true. We had a pretty good life in Europe but I was offered a job in the US and the question immediately arose, "If we decline will we spend the rest of our lives wondering what might have happened had we moved to the US?" So of course we moved. We moved into Northern Virginia which as northern Virginians know is now a suburb of the ghetto officially known as Washington DC. After 7 years we eventually decided to search for the real America before DC spreads out to Winchester. (If you think I exaggerate then you have never lived in Loudoun County where the color green has been outlawed and is being replaced with an unattractive shade of concrete gray).
So we headed south with only one criteria in mind, that we wanted to stay in Virginia. Eventually we found Smalltown and stopped driving. The actual location is going to have to remain anonymous as later posts are undoubtedly going to be nastily vitriolic (I have a horrible sense of humor) and I really don't want to offend people. Well I do really, I just don't want to be caught.
Now we have a place to live and all we need is something to while away the hours. I always fancied the idea of owning a coffeeshop and a search of Smalltown found that there was one for sale, how cool is that. After the attorneys agonized over the minutiae for weeks (and billed accordingly) we found ourselves behind the counter and in front of the espresso machine muttering aloud "Now what do we do". What follows is a mix of stories on life in Smalltown, Coffeeshop tales, observations on people and the odd pointless rant when the mood takes me. Here we go.
So we headed south with only one criteria in mind, that we wanted to stay in Virginia. Eventually we found Smalltown and stopped driving. The actual location is going to have to remain anonymous as later posts are undoubtedly going to be nastily vitriolic (I have a horrible sense of humor) and I really don't want to offend people. Well I do really, I just don't want to be caught.
Now we have a place to live and all we need is something to while away the hours. I always fancied the idea of owning a coffeeshop and a search of Smalltown found that there was one for sale, how cool is that. After the attorneys agonized over the minutiae for weeks (and billed accordingly) we found ourselves behind the counter and in front of the espresso machine muttering aloud "Now what do we do". What follows is a mix of stories on life in Smalltown, Coffeeshop tales, observations on people and the odd pointless rant when the mood takes me. Here we go.
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