After nearly a decade of living in this great country I am still always amazed at the contrast in everything I see. Nothing is “normal” here. People are either scintillatingly smart or mind numbingly dumb. Society is either opulent in its splendor or dirt in its poor. The scenery is either breathtakingly beautiful or heartbreakingly shabby. Let me give you a couple of examples. One weekend the boss and I spent the day at Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, which is a credit to the town fathers and a wonderful place to be. However drive one block east and things look a bit iffy. Drive two blocks and you are in Pittsville USA. The contrast between the two is amplified by the close proximity of the two. Similarly if you are on the Strip in Las Vegas you can drive one mile north and be in the nastiest, seediest place in the US, and yet you are still on the strip. I have examples ad nauseam but let us not labor the point. The contrast seems to be amplified due to the lack of normalcy to separate the extremes.
One of the pleasures of being a purveyor of stimulants is that I get many opportunities to watch people and invariably enjoy a laugh at their expense. Today an elderly gent shuffled in and it was very clear that he belonged to that most interesting of professions, the Virginia farmer. I don’t know what it is about farmers but they have some great characteristics (great, that is, for taking the piss). They are, for a start, invariably slow. That is not to say they are dumb they just move and think very slowly. They are also profoundly deaf. This I assume is because they have spent the last 85 years driving tractors, thrashing wheat and doing all sorts of other noisy things without the benefit of ear protection. The other amazing feature apparent in a Virginia farmer is the missing body part. Every farmer has something missing. Now I know that farming is a dangerous profession but it cannot be that dangerous surely. It is almost like a badge of honor to sport 8 fingers or a missing foot. I have a theory that farmers get hypnotized by the churning of the harvester and eventually think to themselves “I wonder what would happen if I just put my finger in ……. Jesus Christ”. The final attribute of the Virginia farmer is that they are real tough people. The Smalltown Gazette has at least one story a day of some farmer who had his leg ripped off by some whirling monster machine and then hopped 5 miles to the local hospital to have the limb sewn back on. Of course it might just be that to join the Farmers Union you have to go through an amputation hazing before you can be a brother. Anyhow, back to my farmer. As we were empty (no changes there) I had the time to watch with mild interest as he spent 5 minutes getting from the door to the counter. The following ensued. “Good Morning Sir, what’s your pleasure?” “What?” Oh dear here we go again “WHAT CAN I GET FOR YOU?”. “I would like a coffee”. “Well that’s handy, what with us being a coffee house”. “What?” Oh dear. Well as I have mentioned before I like old people and as we were quiet I gave this old boy all the time, and the volume he needed. He ordered one of the boss’s monster bacon doorsteps and a big drip brew, the standard fare in Smalltown. Well, we had a good old time and once he was caffeined and greased up he slothed off for the door. I had a vision of him being mugged by snails on the way out and then telling the police that he couldn’t give them a description as it all happened so fast.
In contrast (and here is the point of this blog) a few hours later a fit little girly came in for lunch and enquired as to how to use the wifi I gave her the password and got her lunch order. We are generally busy at lunch so whenever she could catch my eye she would look and shrug her shoulders to indicate that she was in trouble. Before I became a Coffee Bitch, amongst many other things, I ran a tech support department. This was in the days when men were men (and so I discovered were some of the women). In those days we had DNS numbers, static IP addresses and gateways. When the network didn’t work, it didn’t work. No helpful clues or troubleshooting tips for me I can tell you. These days networking comprises of turning on the laptop and letting it find the connection. So between bussing tables, refilling coffees and serving the boss’s bistro deli sandwiches I would glance at the screen and do the tech support thing “ Right click on available networks” Two passes around the shop and “ Now select that one” Another pass and “Select, manually enter key”. Soon she was up and running and appeared that the other customers had been following our little saga as a small cheer went up. The cheer turned to laughter when she said, “It looks like you have the right knack” to which I of course replied, “Yes my dear, I also have the left one”. When she came to pay she once again thanked me and with a seductive look asked if I would like to make her feel like a real woman. Never to miss an opportunity I slowly removed my shirt and said, “Iron this and fetch me a beer”. Whatever, she tipped out an unheard of 100% on the bill, which more than paid for the wifi and the tech support, sweet.
On a more worrying note I think that I may have been outed to the Sheriffs department. The ladies were back today and knowing that gun talk was they key to their hearts I gave them a rundown of my inventory of shotguns. For some strange and puzzling reason they then invited me to go fishing with them. Now either this is a genuine gesture of friendship/love/lust or more likely they have read my blog and are planning to take their revenge in a hideously physical manner. Leather and lace I can hardly wait.
So dear reader I am not sure when this trip is going to take place, I have a vision of the girls in brown coming to the shop and taking me away in chains. "Hi there boss, we have just come to take the bitch fishing". If this is the last blog entry and you spot a “Help Needed” sign in the coffee house window then I have been kidnapped and am now the love slave of the ladies in brown. Please call the Smalltown cops (in about 6 months time).
Yours in bondage.
TCB
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
Coffee and Uniforms
When I was swimming in the corporate pond (along with the other pond life) I used to receive a ton of emails every day. Most of them required me to do something for someone and quite frankly I am glad to be out of all that nonsense. These days if it wasn’t for spam I wouldn’t get any email at all and that suits me just fine. At least now I have the time to reply and emails, although never a pleasure, do break up the day. Yesterday I received a nice e-mail from a bored housewife looking for some action. Eager to please the young lady I sent her my ironing. That should keep her quiet for a while.
Last week was something of an odd week. My favorite customers were hardly to be seen and dear old Andy didn’t show at all. I do hope that he is not walking around North Carolina looking for his home. I am sure that those Carolinians will not be so helpful as I was and I hate the thought of him wasting his 401k tipping out some ungrateful out of state bastard. My little clique of high school kids who come in for breakfast was thinner than normal, I expect that some of them may have got their credit card bill and realized that a daily latte really does add up. Damn you Visa, give these kids a break. I suppose that I should be concerned about their fiscal responsibly but to be frank these kids have the biggest disposable income in Kissbotty County and I am just like any other drug dealer peddling addictive stimulants.
Right at the end of a tedious day that was ending a tedious week an unusual event occurred. A reasonably good-looking woman came in wearing hospital scrubs, a stethoscope and bearing a very long shopping list of cappos, lattes and mochas. Now I freely admit that I am a sucker for a woman in a uniform. I sometimes wonder if I suffer from some from of visual schizophrenia. Normal Coffee Bitches may see an average looking woman in a nurses uniform, I see a love goddess with a six pack in one hand, an enema pump in the other and a come upstairs look on her face. In similar fashion when the floozies from the police station come in to taunt me with their feminine wiles I see Janet Reger and glistening nightsticks. Of course it goes without saying that a good-looking woman in fly fishing waders is another story (and probably will be soon). The only uniform that I cannot get on with is the Sheriff’s department. No matter how gorgeous you are, that nasty brown uniform makes the fittest lady deputy look like a giant dog doo and perhaps that is why they are such a dour bunch. When they came in for lunch I tried to loosen them up, I really did but the only thing that put a glint of lust in their eyes was gun talk. The standard issue here in Kissbotty is the SIG 9mm and amongst many others I own a P229 so we had something in common. When I tried to provoke them by mentioning the fact the 9mm was a touch girly for my taste they actually agreed. I got the feeling that these bitches really did want to blow miscreants away with a good ol’ 45 soft tip. They would be my kind of ladies but despite imagining them with bicycle pumps, aerosols of whipped cream, knotted nylons, bamboo canes and Saran wrap, I just could not get around that nasty brown uniform. Sorry ladies it looks like we are destined never to climb into the arms of Bacchus together. I feel your loss.
Now hospital scrubs may not be the most alluring of uniforms but I have discovered that under the right light they become fairly translucent which is how the boss came to find me under the counter holding a 2000 watt spotlight. A swift kick to the nadgers reminded me that I was supposed to be making coffee Despite my protestations that I was in fact looking for a wayward coffee bean I was soon behind the Espresso machine brewing up with crossed legs and through a misty vale of tears. Preparing lattes is where I am a Viking and inside 5 minutes I had banged out 10 assorted and taken just shy of $40. Not a bad end to the week.
Last week was something of an odd week. My favorite customers were hardly to be seen and dear old Andy didn’t show at all. I do hope that he is not walking around North Carolina looking for his home. I am sure that those Carolinians will not be so helpful as I was and I hate the thought of him wasting his 401k tipping out some ungrateful out of state bastard. My little clique of high school kids who come in for breakfast was thinner than normal, I expect that some of them may have got their credit card bill and realized that a daily latte really does add up. Damn you Visa, give these kids a break. I suppose that I should be concerned about their fiscal responsibly but to be frank these kids have the biggest disposable income in Kissbotty County and I am just like any other drug dealer peddling addictive stimulants.
Right at the end of a tedious day that was ending a tedious week an unusual event occurred. A reasonably good-looking woman came in wearing hospital scrubs, a stethoscope and bearing a very long shopping list of cappos, lattes and mochas. Now I freely admit that I am a sucker for a woman in a uniform. I sometimes wonder if I suffer from some from of visual schizophrenia. Normal Coffee Bitches may see an average looking woman in a nurses uniform, I see a love goddess with a six pack in one hand, an enema pump in the other and a come upstairs look on her face. In similar fashion when the floozies from the police station come in to taunt me with their feminine wiles I see Janet Reger and glistening nightsticks. Of course it goes without saying that a good-looking woman in fly fishing waders is another story (and probably will be soon). The only uniform that I cannot get on with is the Sheriff’s department. No matter how gorgeous you are, that nasty brown uniform makes the fittest lady deputy look like a giant dog doo and perhaps that is why they are such a dour bunch. When they came in for lunch I tried to loosen them up, I really did but the only thing that put a glint of lust in their eyes was gun talk. The standard issue here in Kissbotty is the SIG 9mm and amongst many others I own a P229 so we had something in common. When I tried to provoke them by mentioning the fact the 9mm was a touch girly for my taste they actually agreed. I got the feeling that these bitches really did want to blow miscreants away with a good ol’ 45 soft tip. They would be my kind of ladies but despite imagining them with bicycle pumps, aerosols of whipped cream, knotted nylons, bamboo canes and Saran wrap, I just could not get around that nasty brown uniform. Sorry ladies it looks like we are destined never to climb into the arms of Bacchus together. I feel your loss.
Now hospital scrubs may not be the most alluring of uniforms but I have discovered that under the right light they become fairly translucent which is how the boss came to find me under the counter holding a 2000 watt spotlight. A swift kick to the nadgers reminded me that I was supposed to be making coffee Despite my protestations that I was in fact looking for a wayward coffee bean I was soon behind the Espresso machine brewing up with crossed legs and through a misty vale of tears. Preparing lattes is where I am a Viking and inside 5 minutes I had banged out 10 assorted and taken just shy of $40. Not a bad end to the week.
When the Coffee House is really quite it is like a sensory deprivation chamber, although it is possible that sucking up weed through a hookah pipe filled with shine doesn’t help. Either way I am not sure if this actually happened or if I imagined it, but talking of uniforms, as we were. A guy came into the shop dressed in full pirates uniform. He had the parrot on his shoulder and he even sported a wooden leg. Bizarrely enough he had a huge ship’s wheel strapped to his groin. Looking up I asked if he knew that he had a ship’s wheel hanging off his Johnson. He replied “Arr Matey; it’s driving me nuts”.
As a treat he boss offered to take me out to breakfast. Sadly that turned out to be carte blanche at the free samples in Sam’s Club. Shopping again, how gullible am I? Still even the shopping turned out to have a happy ending. As I wandered through the parking lot in the usual search for the mislaid truck I was approached by a young lady who wondered if I might care to sleep with her for $50. I replied that I wasn’t very tired but I could certainly do with the money.
OK world, bring on the Monday.
As a treat he boss offered to take me out to breakfast. Sadly that turned out to be carte blanche at the free samples in Sam’s Club. Shopping again, how gullible am I? Still even the shopping turned out to have a happy ending. As I wandered through the parking lot in the usual search for the mislaid truck I was approached by a young lady who wondered if I might care to sleep with her for $50. I replied that I wasn’t very tired but I could certainly do with the money.
OK world, bring on the Monday.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Coffee and Saints
For no particular reason (other than the fact that I could) I started to look up the patron saints. This has been a surprisingly interesting piece of research for two reasons. The first is that I discovered that there is a patron saint for anything you could possibly imagine. The second reason is that I am now able to throw myself on the mercy of St Clare of Assisi. St Clare is the patron saint of, wait for it………… , telephones. So dear St Clare clearly read my last blog regarding the local telephone company and got her revenge by unplugging our cordless phone system. We didn’t notice until late afternoon when one of our regular teatime ladies came in and told us that she and her friends thought that we were closed as they had been calling since 9:30. She and 5 of her friends had arranged to meet in the Chew and Spew (insert name of vastly inferior coffee house in town). Fortunately she managed to round them up and we all had a jolly time as I regaled them with my vast knowledge of teas. The really sad part of the deal is that we normally take at least 10 call in lunch orders and all of those went south. Thank you Clare thank you so very much. Do that again and I swear to God I will be calling St Fiacre.
This has put me in somewhat of a tetchy mood (no change there) so, following the success of the Coffee House Rules I have made up a few more for life in general. I should at this stage mention that rules do not apply to pharmaceutical company representatives. You are always welcome to order 18 bagels, assorted muffins and pots and pots of coffee. Yes the corporate visa will do nicely. For the rest of you please note;
It is no longer allowed for Walmart to be roasting chickens at 8:00 Sunday morning before I have had my breakfast.
It is strictly forbidden to screen advertisements that feature the words “feminine itch and feminine odor” whilst I am eating breakfast. For the purposes of clarity advertisers should consider me to be eating breakfast from one minute past midnight until approximately midnight.
It is now illegal to be Paris Hilton.
It is strictly forbidden to make inverted comma signs in the air with your fingers to emphasize a point.
You may no longer be stupid and slow, choose one not both.
Homeowner’s regulations must be written in plain English. If homeowners wanted to be lawyers they would have tiny testicles.
When I hold a store door open for you as I egress, I expect you to take the door and say thank you. If you walk through without acknowledging my presence, I reserve the right to bury a meat cleaver in the back of your head.
People caught complaining about life in the United States will be forced to live in a third world country. As a mark of my tolerance they will be allowed to choose one, from the many, in the European Community.
It is strictly forbidden to wait in line for a coffee then when at the head of the line say “Hmm now let me see, what do I want?”
Gas is not expensive, get over it. If a $3 gallon has wrecked your life then you need to re-evaluate your financial competence.
When your lattes and mochas have been made, your pastries bagged and sweeteners and stirrers provided, immediately hand over the correct money or proffer a credit card. Do not act surprised that you are expected to pay and then start to look for your missing purse.
Similarly re-organize your pocket book at home. Do not do this when I hand you your change.
Thank you and have a nice day
TCB
This has put me in somewhat of a tetchy mood (no change there) so, following the success of the Coffee House Rules I have made up a few more for life in general. I should at this stage mention that rules do not apply to pharmaceutical company representatives. You are always welcome to order 18 bagels, assorted muffins and pots and pots of coffee. Yes the corporate visa will do nicely. For the rest of you please note;
It is no longer allowed for Walmart to be roasting chickens at 8:00 Sunday morning before I have had my breakfast.
It is strictly forbidden to screen advertisements that feature the words “feminine itch and feminine odor” whilst I am eating breakfast. For the purposes of clarity advertisers should consider me to be eating breakfast from one minute past midnight until approximately midnight.
It is now illegal to be Paris Hilton.
It is strictly forbidden to make inverted comma signs in the air with your fingers to emphasize a point.
You may no longer be stupid and slow, choose one not both.
Homeowner’s regulations must be written in plain English. If homeowners wanted to be lawyers they would have tiny testicles.
When I hold a store door open for you as I egress, I expect you to take the door and say thank you. If you walk through without acknowledging my presence, I reserve the right to bury a meat cleaver in the back of your head.
People caught complaining about life in the United States will be forced to live in a third world country. As a mark of my tolerance they will be allowed to choose one, from the many, in the European Community.
It is strictly forbidden to wait in line for a coffee then when at the head of the line say “Hmm now let me see, what do I want?”
Gas is not expensive, get over it. If a $3 gallon has wrecked your life then you need to re-evaluate your financial competence.
When your lattes and mochas have been made, your pastries bagged and sweeteners and stirrers provided, immediately hand over the correct money or proffer a credit card. Do not act surprised that you are expected to pay and then start to look for your missing purse.
Similarly re-organize your pocket book at home. Do not do this when I hand you your change.
Thank you and have a nice day
TCB
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Coffee and Shame
Part I
I have, of late been subject to a strange and unusual feeling. Checking my symptoms with The Clinical Guide to Psychotropic Medications it appears that I am suffering from shame and looking back over the last few days I suppose that my hypothalamus is justified in holding back on those nice little endomorphines. It all started last Saturday when I just blobbed out. (I don’t know if “blobbed out” is a valid expression in America, in England it has certain female connotations so perhaps I should say I vegged out). Yes indeed I forsook my usual free breakfast at Sam’s Club (I didn’t even go there), I didn’t mow the yard, I didn’t wash the truck, I didn’t do anything at all. I just sat still and watched the second series of Lost on DVD. I watched until my eyes bled. I ignored the pangs of hunger, the pangs of thirst and yes, even the calls of nature. (Note to self, purchase a catering size pack of Depends before they release series 3). That was the sum total of my weekend. 24 episodes back to back, seven disks if you include the bonus features (and I did). Now like a fat chick staring at an empty cream cake box I feel satiated but at the same time sad and hugely guilty. Oh well I am sure that the feeling will pass and the sofa cushions will dry out before season 3 is released.
Part II
So I am slowly getting my self-esteem and respect back when once again life conspires to guide me towards the Prozac bottle. Today I was going to rant about our local telephone company. It is not what they don’t do; it is more a case of what they do (that I don’t want them to do). For many years we have not had a landline at home. As far as I can see they are merely an instrument to allow telemarketers to join us for our evening meal. So we have four cell phones which enable us to keep tabs on FOTL1 and FOTL2 and an international calling card that gets us to Europe for 2 cents a minute (beat that Sprint). Now to my deep regret we have to have a landline or two in the shop for the credit card machine, the fax and of course the telephone. The local telecom scumbags of course cannot resist the opportunity to screw us out of every cent so they
1. Cram our number (click here if you don’t know what cramming is).
2. Despite many calls telling them that the line is for incoming calls only so we don’t want a long distance plan, they sign us up. Guess who with? Yes indeed their parent company.
3. They sell our number so we are subjected to an increasing number of telesales calls.
So why, do you ask, am I feeling the shame? Well as I said I was going to rant and name names and shame the guilty, except they called me first. They want to have an off site meeting and guess where? Yes indeed our place and money is no object. So they remain anonymous and I have sold my personal integrity for the Yankee dollar. Ho hum.
Part III
It seems like I may have been wrong with regard to point three above. Late last night we took yet another call. The formula is “Please hold the line for an important message” at which point I hang up. This time I decided to hold on and give these parasites a piece of my mind. The following ensues;
Hello
Why are you calling this number?
Are you Jenny Talworts?
Who are you?
Are you Jenny Talworts
Who are you?
We are the Acme Debt Recovery Agency.
No I am not Jenny Talworts
Do you know where I can contact her?
No
Click.
Later I realized that it would have been much more fun to have ‘fessed up to being the Jenny Talworts (I have said that name three times now so I hope you caught the double entendre) and found out what the deal is. Watch this space the next time the boys call to break her kneecaps I will wind them up and let you know what transpires.
Still feeling the shame.
TCB
I have, of late been subject to a strange and unusual feeling. Checking my symptoms with The Clinical Guide to Psychotropic Medications it appears that I am suffering from shame and looking back over the last few days I suppose that my hypothalamus is justified in holding back on those nice little endomorphines. It all started last Saturday when I just blobbed out. (I don’t know if “blobbed out” is a valid expression in America, in England it has certain female connotations so perhaps I should say I vegged out). Yes indeed I forsook my usual free breakfast at Sam’s Club (I didn’t even go there), I didn’t mow the yard, I didn’t wash the truck, I didn’t do anything at all. I just sat still and watched the second series of Lost on DVD. I watched until my eyes bled. I ignored the pangs of hunger, the pangs of thirst and yes, even the calls of nature. (Note to self, purchase a catering size pack of Depends before they release series 3). That was the sum total of my weekend. 24 episodes back to back, seven disks if you include the bonus features (and I did). Now like a fat chick staring at an empty cream cake box I feel satiated but at the same time sad and hugely guilty. Oh well I am sure that the feeling will pass and the sofa cushions will dry out before season 3 is released.
Part II
So I am slowly getting my self-esteem and respect back when once again life conspires to guide me towards the Prozac bottle. Today I was going to rant about our local telephone company. It is not what they don’t do; it is more a case of what they do (that I don’t want them to do). For many years we have not had a landline at home. As far as I can see they are merely an instrument to allow telemarketers to join us for our evening meal. So we have four cell phones which enable us to keep tabs on FOTL1 and FOTL2 and an international calling card that gets us to Europe for 2 cents a minute (beat that Sprint). Now to my deep regret we have to have a landline or two in the shop for the credit card machine, the fax and of course the telephone. The local telecom scumbags of course cannot resist the opportunity to screw us out of every cent so they
1. Cram our number (click here if you don’t know what cramming is).
2. Despite many calls telling them that the line is for incoming calls only so we don’t want a long distance plan, they sign us up. Guess who with? Yes indeed their parent company.
3. They sell our number so we are subjected to an increasing number of telesales calls.
So why, do you ask, am I feeling the shame? Well as I said I was going to rant and name names and shame the guilty, except they called me first. They want to have an off site meeting and guess where? Yes indeed our place and money is no object. So they remain anonymous and I have sold my personal integrity for the Yankee dollar. Ho hum.
Part III
It seems like I may have been wrong with regard to point three above. Late last night we took yet another call. The formula is “Please hold the line for an important message” at which point I hang up. This time I decided to hold on and give these parasites a piece of my mind. The following ensues;
Hello
Why are you calling this number?
Are you Jenny Talworts?
Who are you?
Are you Jenny Talworts
Who are you?
We are the Acme Debt Recovery Agency.
No I am not Jenny Talworts
Do you know where I can contact her?
No
Click.
Later I realized that it would have been much more fun to have ‘fessed up to being the Jenny Talworts (I have said that name three times now so I hope you caught the double entendre) and found out what the deal is. Watch this space the next time the boys call to break her kneecaps I will wind them up and let you know what transpires.
Still feeling the shame.
TCB
Monday, September 18, 2006
Coffee and FOTL1 part II
Dear FOTL1
Thank you for your recent letter it was nice to hear from you. I wonder if you could just clarify one small point. When you said that you were averaging a 4.0 can you confirm that this is your GPA and not something you blew after a traffic stop.
Thanks
Thank you for your recent letter it was nice to hear from you. I wonder if you could just clarify one small point. When you said that you were averaging a 4.0 can you confirm that this is your GPA and not something you blew after a traffic stop.
Thanks
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Coffee and the Skeleton
If you can’t get the skeleton out of your closet you had better teach it to dance
The Boss and I have been in a state of wedded bliss for absolutely decades now and I normally tell people that they have been the best two years of my life (that never gets old). The Boss retorts by telling people that her favorite sexual position is next door (and I think that we can all agree that is not funny and she should cut it out). Still you would think that after 20 years plus (rapists only get 14) all the secrets would have been discovered but apparently not. It transpires that the boss was born out of wedlock and who would have guessed what with her mother being such a nice woman. This disclosure was as bizarre as the rest of my life, so bear with me, here we go again.
I am somewhat fond of attending yard sales. I prefer to attend just the ones in the community as I see rummaging through their tat as a valuable insight into the neighbor’s lives. In addition you are also able to fake a bathroom emergency and they are far more likely to allow you to use the facilities than they would a total stranger. Of course the real reason is to get into the bathroom and check out the medicine cabinet. Generally I take a little notepad in and make a few notes then back home I get out Litts Drug Reference Manual and have a jolly old laugh. Usually I see an overabundance of Ritalin as well as some very odd tiny wiener cream stuff. I have yet to find a medicine cabinet devoid of Valtrex and I have to wonder what you colonials are doing with your genitals. Anything really interesting deserves a sample although to be frank I am not sure that estrogen actually agrees with me. So today having discovered that the nice people at number 1350 are having problems in the firmness department (if you catch my drift) I wandered back into the front yard. There really wasn’t too much of any interest so mainly out of boredom I bought a job lot of unmarked self-help DVDs. Back home I absently put one into the player and discovered it was Mike Tyson’s Guide to Good Lovin’. Why anyone would buy this in the first place and then sell it in a yard sale is beyond me but clearly as far as 1350 is concerned there really is trouble in paradise. Surprisingly the DVD turned out to be quite good, although you ladies might want to avoid Mike’s advice on ear nibbling as a form of foreplay. Later that night the boss and I were, well how can I put this delicately? In the arms of Venus when following the advice from Mike I said, “Who’s your Daddy, Who’s your Daddy? Who’s your Daddy?” Looking up from her book the Boss said, “I really have absolutely no idea”.
So there you have it, incredible but true. Tangoing with skeletons.
TCB
The Boss and I have been in a state of wedded bliss for absolutely decades now and I normally tell people that they have been the best two years of my life (that never gets old). The Boss retorts by telling people that her favorite sexual position is next door (and I think that we can all agree that is not funny and she should cut it out). Still you would think that after 20 years plus (rapists only get 14) all the secrets would have been discovered but apparently not. It transpires that the boss was born out of wedlock and who would have guessed what with her mother being such a nice woman. This disclosure was as bizarre as the rest of my life, so bear with me, here we go again.
I am somewhat fond of attending yard sales. I prefer to attend just the ones in the community as I see rummaging through their tat as a valuable insight into the neighbor’s lives. In addition you are also able to fake a bathroom emergency and they are far more likely to allow you to use the facilities than they would a total stranger. Of course the real reason is to get into the bathroom and check out the medicine cabinet. Generally I take a little notepad in and make a few notes then back home I get out Litts Drug Reference Manual and have a jolly old laugh. Usually I see an overabundance of Ritalin as well as some very odd tiny wiener cream stuff. I have yet to find a medicine cabinet devoid of Valtrex and I have to wonder what you colonials are doing with your genitals. Anything really interesting deserves a sample although to be frank I am not sure that estrogen actually agrees with me. So today having discovered that the nice people at number 1350 are having problems in the firmness department (if you catch my drift) I wandered back into the front yard. There really wasn’t too much of any interest so mainly out of boredom I bought a job lot of unmarked self-help DVDs. Back home I absently put one into the player and discovered it was Mike Tyson’s Guide to Good Lovin’. Why anyone would buy this in the first place and then sell it in a yard sale is beyond me but clearly as far as 1350 is concerned there really is trouble in paradise. Surprisingly the DVD turned out to be quite good, although you ladies might want to avoid Mike’s advice on ear nibbling as a form of foreplay. Later that night the boss and I were, well how can I put this delicately? In the arms of Venus when following the advice from Mike I said, “Who’s your Daddy, Who’s your Daddy? Who’s your Daddy?” Looking up from her book the Boss said, “I really have absolutely no idea”.
So there you have it, incredible but true. Tangoing with skeletons.
TCB
Coffee and Style
I think that I am going to have to insist that Walmart introduce a dress code. As you are all aware I am as tolerant as the next Coffee Bitch but things are getting wildly out of control here in the Smalltown Walmart.
It is not that I have anything against chunk-wad ladies. As the boss has pointed out on many occasions I am no string bean myself, but ladies, please, that spandex lycra ski pant stuff does not look good on a 300 pound woman. You should also be aware that when you wash your ski pants the weave just gives up which means that when you bend over two things happen. The first is that my last shred of heterosexuality goes out the front door. The second is that the weave opens up and exposes those nasty cottage cheese sides of ham that you call thighs. In addition the Victoria’s Secret XXXXXXL thong that you are wearing becomes revoltingly obvious. God knows why VS should make a thong in this size where the largest piece of material is the label but please believe me ladies is does nothing for you. When your love muffin gets you shucked down to your skiddies, is he likely to say, “Wow those are such a turn on” (not that he can see them, buried as they are deep in the many, many folds of your special place) or is he more likely to say “OK Pet, fart and give me a clue”.
Talking of Victoria’s Secret I have just been given an award by them. Yes indeed this weekend I received a lifetime ban from all stores. It happened like this. I was hanging around the lingerie department, as is my want when one of the assistants asked me if I needed any help. Well it wasn’t likely that a size 0 waif was going to be able to help me so I told Miss Bulimic that I was just sniffing. I now know why they wear those pretentious little headsets as within seconds the manager was summoned. Any man who works in VS has to be gay so I wasn’t too worried when he told me that I had to buy something or leave. I picked up some sort of satin whisper of nothing and with my best endearing smile asked if he could model these for me. I didn’t know how many it was going to take to throw me out but I sure found out how many they had. Damn those Bigtown sophomores are hard little bitches all teeth, nails and knees to the groin. It quite reminded me of my wedding night and within seconds I was upside down on the sidewalk. Honestly some people have no sense of humor at all.
Finally we get to the point. Here is a spot of free advice for any lonely man who ain’t getting’ none. Buy yourself some nice black pants, a white short sleeve button down shirt, preferably with epaulettes and a black tie. You will also need a pager, the cheaper the better. Now get dressed and hang out outside Victoria’s Secret. As soon as you spot a fit looking piece of totty leaving, press the test button on the pager. She will stop and you explain to the object of your desire that you are the store detective and that she appears to have set the store alarm off. Now you cop a free feel as you pat her down, ostensibly looking for a smuggled out extra bra. The best part of this plan is that you get to grope only the best while letting Miss Walmart 2006 walk on by.
Yours in covetousness
TCB
It is not that I have anything against chunk-wad ladies. As the boss has pointed out on many occasions I am no string bean myself, but ladies, please, that spandex lycra ski pant stuff does not look good on a 300 pound woman. You should also be aware that when you wash your ski pants the weave just gives up which means that when you bend over two things happen. The first is that my last shred of heterosexuality goes out the front door. The second is that the weave opens up and exposes those nasty cottage cheese sides of ham that you call thighs. In addition the Victoria’s Secret XXXXXXL thong that you are wearing becomes revoltingly obvious. God knows why VS should make a thong in this size where the largest piece of material is the label but please believe me ladies is does nothing for you. When your love muffin gets you shucked down to your skiddies, is he likely to say, “Wow those are such a turn on” (not that he can see them, buried as they are deep in the many, many folds of your special place) or is he more likely to say “OK Pet, fart and give me a clue”.
Talking of Victoria’s Secret I have just been given an award by them. Yes indeed this weekend I received a lifetime ban from all stores. It happened like this. I was hanging around the lingerie department, as is my want when one of the assistants asked me if I needed any help. Well it wasn’t likely that a size 0 waif was going to be able to help me so I told Miss Bulimic that I was just sniffing. I now know why they wear those pretentious little headsets as within seconds the manager was summoned. Any man who works in VS has to be gay so I wasn’t too worried when he told me that I had to buy something or leave. I picked up some sort of satin whisper of nothing and with my best endearing smile asked if he could model these for me. I didn’t know how many it was going to take to throw me out but I sure found out how many they had. Damn those Bigtown sophomores are hard little bitches all teeth, nails and knees to the groin. It quite reminded me of my wedding night and within seconds I was upside down on the sidewalk. Honestly some people have no sense of humor at all.
Finally we get to the point. Here is a spot of free advice for any lonely man who ain’t getting’ none. Buy yourself some nice black pants, a white short sleeve button down shirt, preferably with epaulettes and a black tie. You will also need a pager, the cheaper the better. Now get dressed and hang out outside Victoria’s Secret. As soon as you spot a fit looking piece of totty leaving, press the test button on the pager. She will stop and you explain to the object of your desire that you are the store detective and that she appears to have set the store alarm off. Now you cop a free feel as you pat her down, ostensibly looking for a smuggled out extra bra. The best part of this plan is that you get to grope only the best while letting Miss Walmart 2006 walk on by.
Yours in covetousness
TCB
Friday, September 15, 2006
Coffee and Pride
Pride comes before the fall, a popular and enduring saying popular in the English speaking world. This saying suggests that too much pride will blind one to reality and thus, inevitably, cause a fall.
Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. --Proverbs 16:18 www.wikipedia.org
When I started this inane rambling of a blog I promised myself that I would remain strictly anonymous. I also promised that I would never reveal the name of Smalltown (although the clues are there in abundance) and that I would certainly protect the identities of the mainly harmless folk that I mercilessly parody. Yesterday I broke all the golden rules. The Digital Queen has returned from vacation and she was in the shop ordering the usual skinny caramel and leaving the usual undeservedly generous tip. For some insane reason I ratted myself out and gave her this blog address, telling her to click on “Coffee and the Digital Queen”. Actually I should come clean here otherwise the title of this entry isn’t going to make sense. I have enjoyed writing this blog and filling the quiet moments in the shop with something more productive than spliffing up or counting the ceiling tiles. I am acutely aware that with the exception of a sweet little girly in Canada (whom I have mortally offended and will never read this nonsense again) and FOTL1 with the occasional visit from FOTL2 , no one actually reads this drivel. So I could not resist the opportunity to increase my readership by 50%.
Well DQ enjoyed “Coffee and the Digital Queen” so much that she took the time to call the shop and let me know. How good do I feel? There you have the pride. Now for the fall.
This morning I am out front cleaning the windows when a car toots its horn. Suppressing an urge to duck and cover (I am still hiding from those bastards at the Samaritans) I turn to see the Digital Queen. She winds down her window and calls out, with that big, big grin “I was up way too late last night reading your blog”. All right, one up for the Coffee Bitch.
Have you ever woken up with a pounding head and that nasty feeling of guilt and remorse? Of course you have, you liar. Well you know how you spend the next several hours trying to relive the night before, knowing that you did something bad but not quite knowing what it was. That was how I felt, just a strange sense of unease and yet the sun was shining, God was in his heaven and the boss was in a good mood, what is wrong? Then it hit me like an ice cube enema, I just froze. Oh dear God this is so bad, I am so screwed. I suddenly realized what it was. DQ was driving a 2007 model 300M. If this doesn’t make sense to you, you should leave now, read “The Coffee Bitch rants” and all will be revealed.
I should probably leave this alone on the basis that when in a hole the best policy is to stop digging but in a pathetic attempt to redeem myself I point out that
a) The Hemi is a nice engine which is why NASCAR use them
b) You are only a moron if you cover it in pointless stickers that say “Yeah its got a hemi”
c) And if you drive at 55mph in the left lane on the interstate.
d) Women who drive them look really really hot.
Oh enough, I think that we all know I have earned my last Lincoln for a skinny.
Yours in abject semi anonymity
TCB
Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. --Proverbs 16:18 www.wikipedia.org
When I started this inane rambling of a blog I promised myself that I would remain strictly anonymous. I also promised that I would never reveal the name of Smalltown (although the clues are there in abundance) and that I would certainly protect the identities of the mainly harmless folk that I mercilessly parody. Yesterday I broke all the golden rules. The Digital Queen has returned from vacation and she was in the shop ordering the usual skinny caramel and leaving the usual undeservedly generous tip. For some insane reason I ratted myself out and gave her this blog address, telling her to click on “Coffee and the Digital Queen”. Actually I should come clean here otherwise the title of this entry isn’t going to make sense. I have enjoyed writing this blog and filling the quiet moments in the shop with something more productive than spliffing up or counting the ceiling tiles. I am acutely aware that with the exception of a sweet little girly in Canada (whom I have mortally offended and will never read this nonsense again) and FOTL1 with the occasional visit from FOTL2 , no one actually reads this drivel. So I could not resist the opportunity to increase my readership by 50%.
Well DQ enjoyed “Coffee and the Digital Queen” so much that she took the time to call the shop and let me know. How good do I feel? There you have the pride. Now for the fall.
This morning I am out front cleaning the windows when a car toots its horn. Suppressing an urge to duck and cover (I am still hiding from those bastards at the Samaritans) I turn to see the Digital Queen. She winds down her window and calls out, with that big, big grin “I was up way too late last night reading your blog”. All right, one up for the Coffee Bitch.
Have you ever woken up with a pounding head and that nasty feeling of guilt and remorse? Of course you have, you liar. Well you know how you spend the next several hours trying to relive the night before, knowing that you did something bad but not quite knowing what it was. That was how I felt, just a strange sense of unease and yet the sun was shining, God was in his heaven and the boss was in a good mood, what is wrong? Then it hit me like an ice cube enema, I just froze. Oh dear God this is so bad, I am so screwed. I suddenly realized what it was. DQ was driving a 2007 model 300M. If this doesn’t make sense to you, you should leave now, read “The Coffee Bitch rants” and all will be revealed.
I should probably leave this alone on the basis that when in a hole the best policy is to stop digging but in a pathetic attempt to redeem myself I point out that
a) The Hemi is a nice engine which is why NASCAR use them
b) You are only a moron if you cover it in pointless stickers that say “Yeah its got a hemi”
c) And if you drive at 55mph in the left lane on the interstate.
d) Women who drive them look really really hot.
Oh enough, I think that we all know I have earned my last Lincoln for a skinny.
Yours in abject semi anonymity
TCB
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Coffee and Intellect
As you know our little Coffee House is located next to the Kissbotty County Courthouse. As a result I have met all types of humanity. Judges, attorneys, plaintiffs, defendants, reporters and general members of the public. I have met the poorest specimens of mankind (and womankind). Incidentally the poorest and raggy arsed specimens are usually the best tippers. I thought it was because they were illiterate and did not know the difference between a Washington and a Hamilton but FOTL1 who knows about these things tells me that the poor need to feel that they belong to upscale society so they tip more. Actually who cares as long as the trip from the welfare office to the tip jar is a short one. I have also met quite a few feral children on their way to, or from, the Juvenile Court, and even I find that sadly depressing.
So a few days ago a moderately elderly couple call in and settled down to breakfast. Generally smartly dressed people in before 9:00 are going to court and that always piques my jaded interest (God my own life is so dull that I should get my jollies in this way). A few gentle prompts and the story of harassment and retribution spills out and they are now off to court on a (trumped up) assault charge. This nice white haired lady then tells me that she has a concealed carry permit, but not to worry, as she isn’t carrying today. Now as a CCP bitch myself I have no problem with carrying in the shop but I know that the local legal system thinks fairly dimly of getting the ol’ 45 out inside the courthouse. These early mornings are nice inasmuch as I get the chance to pick and choose who I want to talk to and these two were mildly interesting so I hung around. So she chats away and it transpires that she was a Virginia Professional Educator (the anachronism being VaPEd) and is now a published author. All in all it was a refreshing change to pass 30 minutes in the company of someone with an IQ in triple digits.
The rest of the day drifted along in the usual tedium of mediocrity until right at closing when a guy wandered in off the street. Fortunately we were fairly quite because this guy needed some serious babysitting. It was clear that he was slipping slowly into senility and was intent on enjoying his last few brief moments of lucidity in my company. He introduced himself as Andy and asked me what he might like to eat. Normally this sort of question provokes me to suggest the desiccated cat crap sandwich with a side of Warfarin but I was quite warming to old Andy and he blew me away when he said that he used to have a good job but these days he was retired and retarded. If only all my customers were so honest. I did everything I possibly could for Andy and we actually had a good old time together. He couldn’t manage his sandwich so I suggested that we got him a box so he could take half home and he thought that this was the most novel idea ever. Within seconds he had forgotten that he couldn’t manage his sandwich and was ordering all sorts of desserts. Cynical as I am I couldn’t let this continue so after I had packed his sixth portion of pie into his togo bag I stopped him and we called it a day. We settled up and he tipped me out in a most lavish fashion. Then came the weirdest part of the afternoon. He asked for directions to a street that I had never heard of. The best that I could do was to get out my laptop and call up Google maps. This was in the days when I was still skanking wifi from whoever at 5bps so you can imagine how slowly the map loaded. For the next 5 minutes Andy kept asking over and over again what was happening. This was getting old too quickly and I could feel my toes clenching in frustration. Finally the map appeared and thank God I found his road. I showed it to him and of course he didn’t understand so I wrote down the directions. Then he said (and this is God’s honest truth), that is where I live but I can’t remember the way home. How cool is that? So I show him the door and point down the hill. “Drive that way Andy”, “which way?” DOWN THE HILL, LOOK THAT WAY” “Down the hill” YES, PLEASE, DRIVE THAT WAY”. Well finally he shambles off and I am in the clear, except he comes back. He walks straight to the boss and says “That man is really nice, he really looked after me.” Oh God is this ever going to end? Well of course it did and he was gone. About 2 nanoseconds later I dropped the ball as well as the latch on the door. Finally, peace at last.
Well I didn’t intend to blog this day but I have been agonizing over Andy getting home, I had visions of him wandering aimlessly around North Carolina remembering vaguely that I had said take the fourth turn on the left. Fortunately for my excuse for a conscience he must have made it home because today, he was back. He had of course forgotten my name but he was thrilled that I remembered his. This time he had brought his wife who seemed to have most of her marbles and was therefore somewhat less interesting. Again it was late in the afternoon so I had time to wind him up and hilarity ensued (mainly on my part). Again he couldn’t finish his lunch so we boxed it, again he ordered dessert (I stopped him after 3) and we boxed it. Again he paid and dropped far too much in the tip jar, bless him. His good lady who had clearly had enough of the Andy and Coffee Bitch double act left and as Andy walked out of the door he said “I had a bit of cake, where’s my cake” I pointed at his wife’s rapidly disappearing arse and said “she has it”. Clearly desperate for cake Andy shot out of the door and crossed the road without bothering to check for traffic.
Later I bussed the table to discover that like most pre-seniles he had forgotten that he had tipped me and left an additional large tip on the table. If I can get him in twice a week he will be putting me through college.
Yours in avarice
TCB
So a few days ago a moderately elderly couple call in and settled down to breakfast. Generally smartly dressed people in before 9:00 are going to court and that always piques my jaded interest (God my own life is so dull that I should get my jollies in this way). A few gentle prompts and the story of harassment and retribution spills out and they are now off to court on a (trumped up) assault charge. This nice white haired lady then tells me that she has a concealed carry permit, but not to worry, as she isn’t carrying today. Now as a CCP bitch myself I have no problem with carrying in the shop but I know that the local legal system thinks fairly dimly of getting the ol’ 45 out inside the courthouse. These early mornings are nice inasmuch as I get the chance to pick and choose who I want to talk to and these two were mildly interesting so I hung around. So she chats away and it transpires that she was a Virginia Professional Educator (the anachronism being VaPEd) and is now a published author. All in all it was a refreshing change to pass 30 minutes in the company of someone with an IQ in triple digits.
The rest of the day drifted along in the usual tedium of mediocrity until right at closing when a guy wandered in off the street. Fortunately we were fairly quite because this guy needed some serious babysitting. It was clear that he was slipping slowly into senility and was intent on enjoying his last few brief moments of lucidity in my company. He introduced himself as Andy and asked me what he might like to eat. Normally this sort of question provokes me to suggest the desiccated cat crap sandwich with a side of Warfarin but I was quite warming to old Andy and he blew me away when he said that he used to have a good job but these days he was retired and retarded. If only all my customers were so honest. I did everything I possibly could for Andy and we actually had a good old time together. He couldn’t manage his sandwich so I suggested that we got him a box so he could take half home and he thought that this was the most novel idea ever. Within seconds he had forgotten that he couldn’t manage his sandwich and was ordering all sorts of desserts. Cynical as I am I couldn’t let this continue so after I had packed his sixth portion of pie into his togo bag I stopped him and we called it a day. We settled up and he tipped me out in a most lavish fashion. Then came the weirdest part of the afternoon. He asked for directions to a street that I had never heard of. The best that I could do was to get out my laptop and call up Google maps. This was in the days when I was still skanking wifi from whoever at 5bps so you can imagine how slowly the map loaded. For the next 5 minutes Andy kept asking over and over again what was happening. This was getting old too quickly and I could feel my toes clenching in frustration. Finally the map appeared and thank God I found his road. I showed it to him and of course he didn’t understand so I wrote down the directions. Then he said (and this is God’s honest truth), that is where I live but I can’t remember the way home. How cool is that? So I show him the door and point down the hill. “Drive that way Andy”, “which way?” DOWN THE HILL, LOOK THAT WAY” “Down the hill” YES, PLEASE, DRIVE THAT WAY”. Well finally he shambles off and I am in the clear, except he comes back. He walks straight to the boss and says “That man is really nice, he really looked after me.” Oh God is this ever going to end? Well of course it did and he was gone. About 2 nanoseconds later I dropped the ball as well as the latch on the door. Finally, peace at last.
Well I didn’t intend to blog this day but I have been agonizing over Andy getting home, I had visions of him wandering aimlessly around North Carolina remembering vaguely that I had said take the fourth turn on the left. Fortunately for my excuse for a conscience he must have made it home because today, he was back. He had of course forgotten my name but he was thrilled that I remembered his. This time he had brought his wife who seemed to have most of her marbles and was therefore somewhat less interesting. Again it was late in the afternoon so I had time to wind him up and hilarity ensued (mainly on my part). Again he couldn’t finish his lunch so we boxed it, again he ordered dessert (I stopped him after 3) and we boxed it. Again he paid and dropped far too much in the tip jar, bless him. His good lady who had clearly had enough of the Andy and Coffee Bitch double act left and as Andy walked out of the door he said “I had a bit of cake, where’s my cake” I pointed at his wife’s rapidly disappearing arse and said “she has it”. Clearly desperate for cake Andy shot out of the door and crossed the road without bothering to check for traffic.
Later I bussed the table to discover that like most pre-seniles he had forgotten that he had tipped me and left an additional large tip on the table. If I can get him in twice a week he will be putting me through college.
Yours in avarice
TCB
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Coffee and FOTL1
Dear FOTL1,
Please be aware that the appendage on the side of the Espresso machine is called the Steam Wand, it is not the Salmonella Stick.
Thank you
The Management
Please be aware that the appendage on the side of the Espresso machine is called the Steam Wand, it is not the Salmonella Stick.
Thank you
The Management
Coffee and the Internet part II
Well I did say that I would report the activities of the new ISP and begrudgingly I have to say that they done good (as we say in the south). The techie turned up at the appointed hour and after a quick look, let me know what a nightmare installation this was going to be. I hardly endeared myself to him by replying, “Not for me it isn’t, and have a nice trip to the roof “. As a slight aside have you ever noticed that nothing is a problem for the salesman (aka worthless order taker) and yet the poor old techie grunts and sweats for a living. It has always struck me that the lowest of salesmen is always held in higher esteem that the most competent of techies, one of life’s mysteries. So now I have a wireless broadband and hats off to the local boys it works. The only downside (and there always is one) is that I only want customers using this thing, so it has to be secured. Now why can’t Microsoft give me a package that allows me to enter a simple password that I can change every other day. Oh no this is a 26-character login that has to be typed twice and you can’t even paste it. Still at least I am assured that no one can skank any of my broadband.
Oh happy surfing
TCB
Oh happy surfing
TCB
Coffee and the Law part III
You may recall from Coffee and the Law that I mentioned the international law firm of Sue, Grabbit and Runne, well Grabbit has become quite a regular over the last few weeks. He claims to be a fellow immigrant like me but you know what attorneys are, however it is entirely possible that he and I are the only people in Smalltown who are not actually related.
It seems that Sue, Grabbit and Runne have taken up with the local Chief of Police and if you have to have a friend I guess the top cop isn’t too shabby a friend. Now the four of them regularly lunch together and, as is his want, the chief wears his uniform. This has prompted Grabbit to wind up the Chief by telling the server that they are undercover cops and asking if the restaurant offers a “law enforcement” discount. By all accounts the Chief is a thoroughly decent chap and is hugely embarrassed by the shenanigans of this quasi-Irish trickster. Despite most eateries proffering various discounts the Chief always declines and pays his way.
Last week Grabbit comes in to buy his usual wakeup fix and tells the story of the Chief and the discount. He then tells me that the four of them will be dining with us and that I am to offer the Chief the “discount”. OK, well the thought of upsetting the Chief of Police filled me with an urge to defecate but, whatever, I had Grabbit to cover my back. So the appointed day arrives and in walks Sue, Runne and the Chief (who looked resplendent in his immaculate uniform). “Where is Grabbit” I innocently ask. “Oh he is out on a case” replied Sue. Great here we go again, one more piece of proof that the Irish hate the English, I am so set up. Oh well, in for a penny……. “Good afternoon Chief, will you be requiring the law enforcement discount. Well I have to admit I could have done with a camera, three chins hit the table and we all just froze in a still life of embarrassment. Judging by the looks on Sue and Runne’s faces, Grabbit had not let them in on our jolly jape. After some 10 seconds I could see the Chief’s right hand twitching and sensing a nightstick enema I blurted out “Grabbit made me say that”. Well cutting a long story short, hilarity ensued and we got along just fine, until the Chief said that he wanted to pay the same rate as the other guys. I told him that he didn’t as they were attorneys and I always added 10% to their bill. Now I needed the camera for a second still life.
This is the joy of Smalltown life. I know attorneys, judges and now the Chief of Police. Perhaps I can risk moving my nocturnal activities as the Smalltown flasher, to daylight hours. Certainly I should be able to reach a wider audience and if I can get the weekend jail time deal, that would be a real bonus. Sorry boss, no yard work this weekend I have to wash the Sheriff’s car.
As this isn’t a particularly amusing blog, here is a true story. Sue and Grabbit go on a cruise together. In a vicious storm their ship is sunk and they find themselves washed up on a desert island. After weeks of deprivation one morning they discover a beautiful woman washed up on the shore, She is naked, unconscious but breathing. Grabbit looks at Sue and looks at the woman and says, “Shall we, emm, err well you know, err, screw her”. Sue looks at the woman then at Grabbit and in disgust, replies “Out of what”
It seems that Sue, Grabbit and Runne have taken up with the local Chief of Police and if you have to have a friend I guess the top cop isn’t too shabby a friend. Now the four of them regularly lunch together and, as is his want, the chief wears his uniform. This has prompted Grabbit to wind up the Chief by telling the server that they are undercover cops and asking if the restaurant offers a “law enforcement” discount. By all accounts the Chief is a thoroughly decent chap and is hugely embarrassed by the shenanigans of this quasi-Irish trickster. Despite most eateries proffering various discounts the Chief always declines and pays his way.
Last week Grabbit comes in to buy his usual wakeup fix and tells the story of the Chief and the discount. He then tells me that the four of them will be dining with us and that I am to offer the Chief the “discount”. OK, well the thought of upsetting the Chief of Police filled me with an urge to defecate but, whatever, I had Grabbit to cover my back. So the appointed day arrives and in walks Sue, Runne and the Chief (who looked resplendent in his immaculate uniform). “Where is Grabbit” I innocently ask. “Oh he is out on a case” replied Sue. Great here we go again, one more piece of proof that the Irish hate the English, I am so set up. Oh well, in for a penny……. “Good afternoon Chief, will you be requiring the law enforcement discount. Well I have to admit I could have done with a camera, three chins hit the table and we all just froze in a still life of embarrassment. Judging by the looks on Sue and Runne’s faces, Grabbit had not let them in on our jolly jape. After some 10 seconds I could see the Chief’s right hand twitching and sensing a nightstick enema I blurted out “Grabbit made me say that”. Well cutting a long story short, hilarity ensued and we got along just fine, until the Chief said that he wanted to pay the same rate as the other guys. I told him that he didn’t as they were attorneys and I always added 10% to their bill. Now I needed the camera for a second still life.
This is the joy of Smalltown life. I know attorneys, judges and now the Chief of Police. Perhaps I can risk moving my nocturnal activities as the Smalltown flasher, to daylight hours. Certainly I should be able to reach a wider audience and if I can get the weekend jail time deal, that would be a real bonus. Sorry boss, no yard work this weekend I have to wash the Sheriff’s car.
As this isn’t a particularly amusing blog, here is a true story. Sue and Grabbit go on a cruise together. In a vicious storm their ship is sunk and they find themselves washed up on a desert island. After weeks of deprivation one morning they discover a beautiful woman washed up on the shore, She is naked, unconscious but breathing. Grabbit looks at Sue and looks at the woman and says, “Shall we, emm, err well you know, err, screw her”. Sue looks at the woman then at Grabbit and in disgust, replies “Out of what”
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Coffee and Guns
Finally after all these months in Kissbotty County I got some shooting in. Not skeet which is what I really wanted (and I really must motivate myself to call the local club) but at least I got to shoot a selection of my collection of handguns. The Forestry Service in the next county has built a rather decent range and they only ask for two things. One is a donation of at least $1 per shooter, which is ridiculously cheap, and the second is that you only shoot paper, clay or wood targets. I can’t tell if the Hill Billies of Smallscrote County can read but I can tell you that they have turned a nice little range into a junkyard of aluminum cans and broken glass. The Forestry Service has placed signs asking people not to shoot out televisions or computer monitors, and of course the signs are surrounded by shot out televisions and computer monitors. Look rednecks, when you shoot out this shit you are going to pollute the soil with cadmium, mercury, phosphor and all manner of toxic crap. Now I don’t care if this is the reason that your kids are retards (although it might also be because youz bin bumpin’ uglies with youz sister) but the river that flows through Smallscrote county ends up in Kissbotty and supplies my well. So knock it off OK?
Just because it is my second amendment right (and more of that later) I own the most powerful handgun in the world as well as the most powerful semi-automatic. The satisfaction of firing off a hand cannon is only matched by the complete dissatisfaction of using a $2.50 round to punch a half-inch hole in a paper target. So bearing in mind the rules regarding targets, FOTL1 and I took an old oak headboard to the range. Now that is what I am talking about. What joy. Did we ever blow chunks out of that sucker. At the end of the day being responsible shooters that we are we took our crap home only stopping to pay our dues at the honesty box. People of Smallscrote take note; if you continue to abuse the facilities the Forestry Service will probably close the range and then we will have to come to your home to practice.
This business at the range got me thinking about guns and rednecks and of course the second amendment which they are so fond of quoting. Let me see if I can get this right A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed. So we are at present under threat (so Dubbya keeps telling me) and your country needs you. I respectfully suggest that all of you who stand on your 2nd amendments rights now need to form that militia and report to Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Next stop Iraq. I am guessing that the 2nd doesn’t sound so good now does it. Anyway lest you think that I am a gun-toting hypocrite let me offer my rules for gun ownership.
1. You need to be able to read and write (English)
2. You need to register your guns (just like your truck, Bubba)
3. You need to complete a federally approved gun awareness course and pass the test afterwards
4. You need to own a gun safe. I don’t care if your kids shoot each other I just don’t want the little tards tooled up and loose on my street
In my travels I have met many gun owners and to a man (and woman) they despised Bill Clinton for his assault weapon ban. Yet when I ask why weapons of war should not be kept off the streets of America, there seems to be no answer. To my mind a cop puts on his uniform and puts himself in harms way to protect me and mine. Why he would do this I don’t know, it surely isn’t for the money. Anyone who designs a round to go through the cops vest, or who uses an Uzi 10 on a cop (or me for that matter) is IMHO in the same league as Osama bin Scumbag. So my fellow Hill Billies, gun ownership, a responsibility not a right. Are we all agreed on this?
Just because it is my second amendment right (and more of that later) I own the most powerful handgun in the world as well as the most powerful semi-automatic. The satisfaction of firing off a hand cannon is only matched by the complete dissatisfaction of using a $2.50 round to punch a half-inch hole in a paper target. So bearing in mind the rules regarding targets, FOTL1 and I took an old oak headboard to the range. Now that is what I am talking about. What joy. Did we ever blow chunks out of that sucker. At the end of the day being responsible shooters that we are we took our crap home only stopping to pay our dues at the honesty box. People of Smallscrote take note; if you continue to abuse the facilities the Forestry Service will probably close the range and then we will have to come to your home to practice.
This business at the range got me thinking about guns and rednecks and of course the second amendment which they are so fond of quoting. Let me see if I can get this right A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed. So we are at present under threat (so Dubbya keeps telling me) and your country needs you. I respectfully suggest that all of you who stand on your 2nd amendments rights now need to form that militia and report to Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Next stop Iraq. I am guessing that the 2nd doesn’t sound so good now does it. Anyway lest you think that I am a gun-toting hypocrite let me offer my rules for gun ownership.
1. You need to be able to read and write (English)
2. You need to register your guns (just like your truck, Bubba)
3. You need to complete a federally approved gun awareness course and pass the test afterwards
4. You need to own a gun safe. I don’t care if your kids shoot each other I just don’t want the little tards tooled up and loose on my street
In my travels I have met many gun owners and to a man (and woman) they despised Bill Clinton for his assault weapon ban. Yet when I ask why weapons of war should not be kept off the streets of America, there seems to be no answer. To my mind a cop puts on his uniform and puts himself in harms way to protect me and mine. Why he would do this I don’t know, it surely isn’t for the money. Anyone who designs a round to go through the cops vest, or who uses an Uzi 10 on a cop (or me for that matter) is IMHO in the same league as Osama bin Scumbag. So my fellow Hill Billies, gun ownership, a responsibility not a right. Are we all agreed on this?
Coffee and the Internet
For those of you whose lives are so empty as to be interested, guess what? The new ISP fell at the first hurdle. Ho hum. Back up north I was no great fan of Pox Communication but they did provide blindingly fast internet and if they were 30 minutes late for an appointment they stumped up $20. So instead of setting the Coffee House up on Tuesday these losers called to make it Thursday. Sadly this seems to be the way of doing business in the south. Personally I blame it all on the ready availability of shine and marijuana. This is why the south lost the war of northern aggression. They were too spliffed up to remember what date the battle was. In the meantime I am still reduced to skanking wifi off whoever it is that doesn't understand how to secure a network. The upside is that it is free, the downside is the some greedy bastard is gobbling up my share of the bandwidth. Watch this space.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Coffee and Tea
On a more than passing basis people have been kind enough to comment on the quality of our iced tea. Personally I am of the opinion that iced tea is somewhat akin to pouring coke into Glenmorangie but as we say, when in Smalltown do what Smalltownies do. (Actually I made that up, no one says that, they normally say “Aint no sense in flogging a pullin’ mule” or something equally profound). Back to the point. The reason that the tea tastes good is that we actually use tea! If you think that would be a given, check out the powder and syrups that your local chew and spew uses. The problem with doing the right thing is that when you make tea you have to use boiling water and clearly it is still damned hot by lunchtime. If you ice it up then the ice turns to water and you have a nasty insipid drink that neither refreshes nor enriches the soul. So with a brilliant flash of inspiration I decide at the end of each day to freeze a ziplock back of tea. Now I can make fresh each morning and then float in a huge ice cube of frozen tea. The iced tea is now iced and not watered down. Je suis une rock star baby.
As is my want I like to perform a spot of quality control each morning so I have sippers of the French roast, decaf, flavor of the day and so on. The boss isn’t too happy when she discovers half her pastries have disappeared but it is a tough job that someone has to do. This morning, having checked out the caffeine offerings I moved onto the iced tea.
Have you ever been at a party when in a state of mild intoxication you have grabbed a beer and chugged away only to discover that you have picked up the can that has been used as an ashtray? Warm beer and ash followed by a butt or two caught deep in the back of your throat. That is the exact experience that sent me sprinting to the bog in a frenzy of retching and gagging. The taste was all the more shocking for being diametrically opposite to what my taste buds expected. No smooth slightly tannin nectar, this was like tasting the south side of a Pekinese that is heading north. What on earth was this? It didn’t take to long to discover that the frozen brown ziplock was in fact French Onion soup to which I had mixed fresh hot tea. For most people this would be the serendipity that makes their fortune. You know the thing, the bad batch of writing paper that invents blotting paper or the bad glue batch responsible for Post It notes. No such luck for me, tea and onion soup just make a vile emetic and the distillers of Tequila have already invented that.
Now I need to tie a piece of pork fat to a length of string so that I can pull it up and down my throat and take the taste of the tea away.
TGIF, TCB
As is my want I like to perform a spot of quality control each morning so I have sippers of the French roast, decaf, flavor of the day and so on. The boss isn’t too happy when she discovers half her pastries have disappeared but it is a tough job that someone has to do. This morning, having checked out the caffeine offerings I moved onto the iced tea.
Have you ever been at a party when in a state of mild intoxication you have grabbed a beer and chugged away only to discover that you have picked up the can that has been used as an ashtray? Warm beer and ash followed by a butt or two caught deep in the back of your throat. That is the exact experience that sent me sprinting to the bog in a frenzy of retching and gagging. The taste was all the more shocking for being diametrically opposite to what my taste buds expected. No smooth slightly tannin nectar, this was like tasting the south side of a Pekinese that is heading north. What on earth was this? It didn’t take to long to discover that the frozen brown ziplock was in fact French Onion soup to which I had mixed fresh hot tea. For most people this would be the serendipity that makes their fortune. You know the thing, the bad batch of writing paper that invents blotting paper or the bad glue batch responsible for Post It notes. No such luck for me, tea and onion soup just make a vile emetic and the distillers of Tequila have already invented that.
Now I need to tie a piece of pork fat to a length of string so that I can pull it up and down my throat and take the taste of the tea away.
TGIF, TCB
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