Coffee and Halloween

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

Trick or Treat?

The Coffee Bitch cures senility

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

Cha-ching.

Coffee and the Dilemma

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

My life is not my own.

Coffee and Retribution

So as I was saying, Bertie Hemmer (of the law firm Hemmer, Royd and Piles) called in for his wake up shot of caffeine. Just previously one of my older and slightly senile (my favorite type of) customers had managed to slop a fair percentage of fresh brew onto the floor. For the longest time I debated whether I should watch it evaporate into a brown ringed stain or mop it up, yes indeed I was as busy as usual. Eventually I decided that mopping might ingratiate myself with the boss so as noisily as I could I swabbed away. Having just finished, cue the entrance of Bertie. Within a nanosecond of crossing the threshold Bertie says (and I swear this is true) “Oh, this looks like a slip and fall waiting to happen”. He then orders his coffee and breaking the habit of a lifetime decides to have it here instead of to go. Sitting down by the damp patch he looks at me and then with an expectant look on his face, at the wet floor. Frankly I didn’t care what was about to happen; as far as I am concerned the insurance company can pick up the tab on this one. As a bonus for me it might be mildly amusing to watch a Smalltown wrinkly skidding wildly across the shop with legs and crutches pointing at the ceiling. Still nevertheless Bertie was annoying me so gathering a large handful of paper towel I got down on my knees, a position not adopted since the 8th grade at St Edwards Church of England School, Romford, Essex and I have to confess it brought back mixed memories. With a song in my heart I dried the floor and as the last molecule of H20 evaporated so did Bertie.

Coffee Bitch 1. Bertie 0.

Coffee and Resurrection

Mark Twain and I have something in common inasmuch as the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

Nevertheless by all the saints I have had the most bizarre weekend. I was awoken by the plaintiff wails of Smalltown’s most vivacious (and available) totty, beating their breasts and berating a God who could have so cruelly taken from them, the Coffee Bitch. Ladies, what gives with the prodding sticks? I am black and blue all over, and I really mean all over. To cap it all my gennies feel like they have spent all weekend immersed in a bucket of boiling battery acid. I haven’t felt so sore since I gave up being a host at a Venezuelan She-male bar, which incidentally is where I first met several prominent republicans. I would like to be able to tell you exactly what happened but sadly I have very little memory of anything after the bash with the Smalltown Telephone Co. Inc. I can only assume that one of the bastards roofed me up. How I ended up in a wheelie bin at the Kissbotty landfill is beyond me but it looks like yet another trip to the Genito-Urinary Clinic, I should be getting a staff discount by now. Talking about the STC Inc. I am hearing stories that their DSL performance claims may be as exaggerated as their performance claims between the sheets. I shall give them a month and if they haven’t cranked it up to lightening speed I shall reveal all (and probably end up in another wheelie bin).

There is much to tell you about recent events. We had another visit from Bertie Hemmer of the law firm Hemmer, Royd and Piles and I have been receiving some very strange notes from some very strange customers. This will all have to wait as I have some far more pressing tasks. First and foremost I need to get about a gallon of Nivea Intensive Care lotion under the bridge. Then I need to work out how I fell asleep in a wheelie bin and managed to snap a padlock on the outside. Finally whose boots are those under my bed?

Yours in soreness
TCB

Coffee and the End

Dear Reader

This is the Boss. I regret, no regret is too strong a word, I advise you that the Coffee Bitch has died. Apparently it choked to death eating a large amount of humble pie. In the past when this has happened I have normally been able to revive it by wafting a Washington in its general direction and looking for a spasmodic clenching of its right hand. Once I see its fingers twitch a swift kick to the nadge bag normally gets its excuse for a heart running again. Alas and alack, despite my best endeavors (and I promise I really did give his nadgers a good seeing to) it passed away over its keyboard having typed the words “I may have been wrong on this telephone business”.

As you are aware, last night we hosted the Smalltown Telephone Company Inc and their DSL seminar. The lads from STC were actually a thoroughly decent bunch and we both had rather a jolly old time. At the end of it all two things happened that I guess just destroyed its lack of faith in human nature.

First they offered to leave the DSL connection and wireless router in the shop free of charge forever. They then offered the Bitch a huge commission if he sold their service to our customers. To add insult to injury apparently their service is four times the speed of the one he has. Now I freely admit that I don’t know the difference between a megabit and a head nit but 5 Mbits sounds good to me.

Secondly just when he thought he could even the score they got him again. As an act of retaliation he presented his wholly unreasonable and avaricious bill and they refused to accept it. In fact they suggested that he doubled it and just handed over a corporate credit card. Just to show who really was the boss they also added a huge tip.

All in all they just destroyed the Bitch’s will to live and it is fitting that his last blog would have been “I may have been wrong…….. “

The wake will be this afternoon in the plastic wheelie bin behind the Coffee House. I would recommend that you bring a long prodding stick, as when you are as full of crap as the bitch was, things tend to get a get whiffy in the hot afternoon sun. The funeral will be held at the Kissbotty County landfill, courtesy of the Kissbotty County Refuse Service who fortunately collect on Friday mornings. No flowers please but I am sure that the Bitch would have liked to see Lincolns in old pickle jars. The funeral notice will be by way of a help wanted advert in the Smalltown Gazette.

It may seem a little insensitive to speak of a replacement with the Bitch still warm in its wheelie bin but needs must. I will be looking for someone with a Master’s in procrastination. Someone who can turn my finest pastries into apron crumbs and deny all. Someone who even with his hand still in the tip jar, can berate the meanness of Smalltownians. On the personal front and with regard to bedroom etiquette I shall be looking for someone who will regularly scratch his special place whilst exclaiming “Oh yeah baby, that’s the spot”. Someone who can break unbelievably copious amounts of wind whilst simultaneously shouting “Burglars” and throwing the comforter over my head. Someone who on very, very rare occasions might just say “Was that good foooo…….” before lapsing into a coma and then treating me to his 8 hour sinus symphony. Oh yes indeed the Bitch will be a hard act to follow

Sleep well my Prince

The Boss

Coffee and Invoices

Have you ever looked at your telephone bill? I mean really looked. It used to amaze me that the quoted cost of $14.99 per month and free local calls could result in a bill of $60 plus per month. I realize that one needs to subtract the long distance plan (and that is another huge scam) but even so I could never work out how they made so little cost so much, twas a trick that David Copperfield would have been proud of.

I am by no means a fan of British Telecom but their bill was two rows
Rental of line
Cost of calls.
That was it, easy isn’t it? No long distance nonsense, no portability crap, no intrastate communication scamming, just a plain English language bill submitted every three months.

So, you wonder, where is all this going, wonder no more patient reader? The Smalltown Telephone Company Inc. are holding a seminar in the Coffee House tonight and following their lead I am preparing the invoice. It will look something like this;

Rental of space
Bathroom fee
Walking through the door surcharge
Exit plan franchise fee
Fresh air fee
Tax on franchise fee
Franchise on tax fee
Happy smiley face whilst I box you up like a kipper fee

Of course I also need to cram the account. Cramming is where the telephone company adds extra chargeable services that you didn’t request. So buried in the fine print will be 2 cases of beer that they didn’t order. If I am caught out I shall explain that I didn’t ask for ETL Internet advertising either. If they would like this monthly charge removed then they need to call 27 times and eventually I will refund their money, however it will take 3 billing cycles. (Whatever that means). You know I can’t help but to wonder if I am not a tad too much of a people person.

Revenge, the dish best eaten cold.

TCB

PS. I have just discovered that the seminar is about their DSL service (I know this as at the last minute they came in to install a wireless router). Well courtesy of the Digital Queen I already have a wireless service in the Coffee House. I just know that my one is going to be faster than DSL so I might just change the broadcast name to “Faster than DSL”. $10 says they beg me to turn off my router.

Je suis une rock star baby.

The Coffee Bitch Yawns

Things have been all rather normal lately, busy but normal. I don’t mind the busy it’s the normal I can’t stand. Where are all my looney tune customers? I haven’t seen Johnny the land crab or his ho pants sister. My old sparring partner Andy has disappeared (probably on his way to the west coast by now) and to be honest, seeing the amazing farting granny again would be like a breath of fresh air. If none of this makes sense then you should be paying more attention but as an act of unwarranted generosity I have added hyperlinks to the relevant stories, enjoy and hurry back (y’awl).

So what has happened of interest recently? Well the Digital Queen of Smallville called in. Knowing about my little thing with rubber-ware she promised that her next visit would be in fishing waders and nothing but fishing waders. To be fair, I may have imagined the “and nothing but” part, still hope springs eternal in the human breast or some similar Shakespearian nonsense.

Some time ago I was chatting to one of my seniors and it transpired that we were both gun collectors. Cutting a long story short we arranged that we would both bring in some guns and swap notes. So on the chosen day (and ensuring we were empty) we turned the Coffee House into a gun store. They do say that the only difference between men and boys is the price of the toys and I guess we proved that true. To be a real gun owner you have to apply for and obtain a concealed carry permit and after we did our show and tell we exchanged permits. Then he decided to show me his concealed carry, which he pulled out of his pocket, or to be more accurate didn’t. The hammer got caught in the lining and it took him a good few tugs to get into brandish mode. Then (as I suppose is correct) he pointed out that it was loaded so I popped the chamber and dropped out the 6, 45 caliber rounds. Now a 45 is a nasty round and in a stubby revolver packs a mean wallop; this old boy was at least 75 years old so you can imagine what a tough old boy he was. This all leaves me with two thoughts. The first is, how many people in Kissbotty are walking around town with a small cannon tucked into their waistband? The second is that if he ever was mugged the mugger could have his wallet, spend the money on putting his kids through college and retire before my man got his piece out of his pants pocket.

Fruit of the loin 1 dropped in on Friday. She is, bless her, a hard coffee drinker although the stimulant effect of caffeine goes straight to her bowels. She is 5 foot 3 tall and about 100 pounds soaking wet but I swear to God, she is 90% colon. She ordered her usual triple shot cappo and within 10 minutes was twitching and fidgeting like there was no tomorrow. Eventually she gave in to her urges and did the walk of shame to the bog. We are a small coffee house with one bathroom and she chose our busy time to close it for 20 minutes. This had two effects, first a queue of weak bladdered Smalltownians quickly formed and I have to confess that I derived a certain schadenfreude (only Germans could invent this word) in watching them shuffle, sweat and look pathetically at the door. Secondly a swarm of African Dung Beetles moved in and started singing “On the Sunny Side of the Street”.

Just when I thought that I had seen it all, Charles Dickens walked in. The senile old fool clearly mistook the Coffee House for a bar as he ordered a dry Martini. Quick as a flash I replied “Certainly, olive or twist?”

I really do rule.

Coffee and the menopause

I think that I am going to have to invent a new tipping system especially for the more senior of citizens. As you know I do enjoy the company of old folks but sometimes they can be a tad demanding, allow me to explain. When I amble to your table all you have to do is say what you want and I will get it and we are done. If I decide to stop for a chat that is my perogative. What is not acceptable is for you to not know what you want and order a coffee whilst you think about it. If you then order a sandwich I have had to make two trips to your table and if you subsequently order desert, well you see my point. So why don’t we come to an agreement here? $1 per trip to your table plus $3 for the pleasure of my conversation. Is that fair?Actually and purely by chance I may have discovered a solution that puts the Coffee Bitch firmly at the wheel. We had a cold front blow across Kissbotty county last week and finally I was able to turn off the air. I have been itching to do this ever since the boss discovered an old Virginia law that states that utility bills must be paid out of the tip jar (and far be it from me to argue with the law, or the boss). Well of course the place started to warm up and one of my wrinklies started to fan herself. The boss, spotting her distress, gave me the look of she who must be obeyed, turned to the crumbly and said “It is rather hot in here isn’t it?” Thank goodness for that, she replied, I thought I was having one of my hot flashes. Hmm, thinks I, I bet half of the post menopausal relics in Kissbotty are on some sort of hormone replacement and probably smuggled across the Mexican border if I am any judge. So as soon as I am bored all I have to do is make sure that the boss is out of harms way and then dick around with the heating. In a flash (so to speak) the place will be empty again and I can get on with my life. For your convenience I will place an extra tip jar by the door.

Coffee and the moral dilemma

From time to time one of my prettiest young customers comes in for a latte and some fruit. As I am slowly outing myself with this blog I shall make every effort to protect her identity (and my freedom). She is a Cute, Hot, Exceptionally Ravishing Young Lady and that spells Cheryl, so Cheryl she shall be.

Yesterday afternoon Cheryl popped in and ordered a take out skinny latte for herself and full-blooded mocha for a friend. No problem for a Coffee Bitch of my talents so within 3 minutes she had the finest espresso drinks money can buy and I had pocketed $6.70 plus sales tax plus meal tax plus tip, sweet. After she had departed I started to clean the espresso machine (and let me tell you people one of the secrets to great espresso is cleanliness) when I discovered to my horror that the little espresso pitcher was still full of coffee. Oh double deluxe crap. I had served a weak steamed chocolate drink with whipped cream and sprinkles. There was one repeat order that wasn’t going to happen. Fearing for my gonads I decided not to tell the boss and pretend it never happened.

Today Cheryl is back. She buys her fruit cup, orders another skinny and unbelievably says that she needs another mocha just like the last one as her friend enjoyed it so much.

So here is the moral dilemma. Should I continue to roof up Cheryl’s lattes?

(For those of a more sheltered upbringing, click here to get an explanation of roofing).

Yours in ecstasy
TCB

Coffee and Sex

Many decades ago when I was a mere lad "coffee" was the big dating double entendre. Having spent my hard earned wedge on a pint of stout and a bag of chips I knew I was about to score if I heard the word coffee. However I soon realized that one has to be somewhat careful as "Would you like to come in for coffee?" isn’t the same as "Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?" Many people think they're in interchangeable, but they're completely wrong. "A cup of coffee" means a cup of coffee. "Coffee" means sex. So, for the benefit of those still on the prowl and having established the language of love I have these days come to the conclusion that a cup of coffee is better than an offer of sex. So with apologies to DQ who I know will disagree, read on


A long black coffee is in fact long and black.
You can always start the day with good coffee.
Coffee doesn't leave hairs in your teeth.
Coffee always goes down smoothly.
Drinking coffee on your own doesn't make you feel like a sad loser. Sex on the other hand…..
You don't get into trouble for having coffee in front of your parents.
Spilling coffee in your bed leaves a wet patch, but you hardly ever spill it. Sex on the other hand……….
You can have great coffee with your sister.
There's no moral or ethical dilemma in paying for coffee.
Coffee tastes great.
A cup of coffee never complains if you want to use another cup for a change.
You can make coffee last as long as you want.
It is possible to drink a cup of coffee even when you're really legless.
Coffee doesn’t care how many other cups you have had before.
Coffee comes in different flavors!
A cup of coffee doesn’t get mad if you drink from another cup.
You can eat sammiches while you have your coffee.
You don’t get sneered at for being addicted to caffeine.
With $1.25 you can have free refills of coffee; with sex how much can you get for $1.25?
You can light up a cigarette halfway through a coffee.
The checkout chicks at the supermarket never give you 'that look' when you're buying coffee.
You can make a coffee for your co-worker without fear of charges being made
When your done, it takes less than a minute to make another coffee no matter what mood you’re in.
Coffee never seems to have a headache.
A coffee will never leave you for a better drinker.
Your usual cappuccino won't feel hurt when you go out and order a hot Guatemalan coffee instead.
Your coffee doesn't whine on about needing a cuddle after you've drunk it.
If you watch someone else having coffee you don't get called a voyeur.
You can have a coffee in the workplace without having to wait until everyone else has gone home.
Coffee can be tasted the whole night, sex only few seconds. [A few seconds!? Not a great ad for yourself there CB]
You don't have to wait until your birthday for a coffee.
Coffee never lies to you. It never tells you it loves you and will never leave you and then go off with some stupid, illiterate, ugly bimbo AND it's supposed to be BITTER!
No one ever threw their back out while drinking coffee.
If your coffee is bad you can just tip it down the sink!
You cant get pregnant drinking coffee.
Coffee doesn't care if was as good for you as what it was for it!
Plunger coffee is an easy everyday pleasure. Plunger sex involves a bungee cord and immense amounts of trust.
You don't get arrested for enjoying coffee by yourself in a public place.
Coffee doesn't insist on you buying clothes for it after.
Impotent sex is bad but impotent coffee is simply decaf.
After you are finished coffee never asks "What are you thinking?"
There are no dilemas with coffee, always swallow.
You don't have people prying for details after they find out you had a cup of coffee last night.
You can fantasize about famous coffees and not feel like a loser.

Damn I've even bored myself now. OK it's time for me to get back to work and to be frank I think that you should be working as well

The Coffee Bitch Jeers and Cheers

Cheers to the IRS. Well to be more accurate, cheers to agent 606027. For the longest time I have been in dispute with the leeches at the IRS. I am not saying who was in the wrong but I made a mistake (unbelievable I know) and then the IRS just refused to read my letters that tried to correct the situation. Finally the maggots that they are sent me a threatening letter and when I say threatening I mean threatening. Amongst other rhetoric they say “They are empowered to collect information from my neighbors”. WTF! You mess with us bitch and we will rat you out to your neighbors. So I called and spoke to a very nice agent who actually agreed with me but had to put me on hold whilst she spoke to her supervisor. The supervisor also agreed with me and they both put me on hold whilst they typed up a letter. Here’s a thought for you. There is no set letter for the IRS to admit to being wrong so the nice lady had to keep me on hold until she manually typed a letter rescinding all claims against me. Anyway, whatever, Coffee Bitch 1 IRS 0. Here’s to you agent 606027, free coffee for life if you read this blog.

Just to prove that every sliver lining has a cloud because I tied up the line for 90 minutes we missed a big telephone order. How do I know? Because next day they called to tell us that they wanted to order 15 lunches but couldn’t get through.


Jeers to Coca Cola. One of our customers noticed that the Coke was out of date. Setting aside the issue of how pedantic you have to be to read the tiny letters on a soda bottle this is bizarre, as we had just bought this stuff. Ever eager to pin the blame the boss started to rant about those bums at Sam’s Club selling out of date stock and started to sharpen her gelding shears. I didn’t like to remind her that she was wasting her time as the manager’s meat and two veg were still in a dill pickle bottle under the bed (If you haven’t read The Coffee Bitch vs. Sam Walton, why not?). In a pathetic attempt to ingratiate myself with the boss I called Coca Cola to ask what the deal was. After all we can all be agreed that Coke is water, carbon dioxide and chemicals, none of which expire. The official lie story is that this date is a best taste before date. This means that by the time your soda gets from Atlanta to Sam’s in Bigtown it is going to taste like excrement. Is it possible that this semi legal, completely immoral ruse is just designed to ensure that retailers dump cases and cases of tooth rottin’, fat makin”, ever fizzin’ foul tastin’ pig dribble down the cludgie? So kiddies if you want to make Mr Singh's day, pop into your local 7-11 and check out the "expiry" date on his sodas

Jeers to Olive Garden and Fridays. As I have mentioned ad nausium the Smalltown haute cuisine is Applebees. We dined there last night, the boss and I, and it wasn’t even a special occasion, how cosmopolitan is that? Well it turned out to be a thoroughly pedestrian experience. It wasn’t that it was particularly bad it was more like nothing was good. The appetizers were luke warm and the entrees were sadly tasteless. So why am I bitching at Olive Garden and Fridays? Well if you guys moved into Smalltown then Applebees would have some competition and they might have to fire their worthless armpit of a chef. By the way, Hooters, this invitation also applies to you. I am not sure how busy the locals would keep you but you will have at least one loyal customer (until the boss finds out).

Cheers to Kenny for having a sense of humor. I am so calling your mother.

The Coffee Bitch gets technical

Since the Digital Queen and I got the web into the Coffee House we have started to get a nice little crowd of Smallville’s intelligencia bringing their laptops in and browsing. The mornings are particularly pleasant when we get the high school kids in and these are the people with the highest disposable incomes in town. Lattes and laptops and my happiness is complete. Today, one of our regulars who I shall call Mikey (even though his real name is Kenny) was struggling with his laptop and this thing was real sick, in fact I am sure I saw it waving a white flag at one stage. Before I became a Coffee Bitch I used to run a tech support team, so relishing the intellectual distraction I offered to fix this sick puppy. It is a well-kept secret amongst geeks that all the tools one needs to repair a PC are on line and free so without giving the game away I tweaked, tuned, deleted and defragged and the Dell started to look a lot happier. Strangely enough as the Dell got happier I got sadder and that didn’t make sense. Then it struck me, I was being altruistic and that is just not I. When I am in a good mood I am a miserable curmudgeon and in a bad mood, impossible. What was I to do to restore the status quo? Perhaps if I were to visit the foulest and nastiest fetish and bondage sites on the web that might cheer me up. Alas no, my jaded appetites could not be titillated by the veritable cornucopia of smut available to a left mouse click. Then a delicious thought came to me. I was leaving a vile trail of porn in the history of Kenny’s browser. Now if I were accidentally let Kenny’s Mother (who is an occasional visitor) know that I had found bad things on his laptop and showed her how to track the last sites “he” visited I guess that she would get mad and he would be grounded for, well forever. Now I feel back to my old self.

See you in Hades Kenny.

Coffee and Tact

I have to confess that some of my tales of the Coffee House might be a touch embellished for theatrical effect. What now follows is all the funnier for being the absolute truth. This is verbatim what happened. To set the scene, I have mounted on the wall a picture of Winston Churchill and amongst other bric-a-brac a one-pound note.

A jolly nice rather elderly lady popped in mid afternoon for some tea and a scone. As I have mentioned in the past I find old people interesting and we were fairly quiet so I gave her my best attention. We got along just fine until right at the very end when see asked me if I knew who she looked like. You will doubtless remember from Coffee and the Law part I that I suffer from prosopagnosia (and damned handy it can be at times) so I looked vacantly and told her that I had no idea. She told me to look at the picture on the wall, which I did before guessing “Winston Churchill?”. She was mortified and squealled “No, the pound note”. Then I saw it, damn she was a dead ringer for her Britanic Majesty Little Lizzy Windsor aka the Queen. God it really was uncanny. Now on a good day Winston looks like the arse end of a septagarian boxer dog so you can imagine how pissed she was. This was her one claim to fame and I blew it for her.
Onwards and downwards.

Coffee and Motherhood

There are some women who must instinctively know that they are not going to make it as mothers. I am guessing that they just put it off until they finally bend to peer pressure or mother in law pressure or whatever. Knowing that this is not going to work out well and hoping to get it all over as quickly as possible they drop three sprogs in quick succession and then fall into a morass of failure, self pity and hopelessness. These sad ladies then spend the next eighteen years losing control of their snots and their minds until the snots reach 18 and go to college where they are someone else’s problem or until they reach 18 and go to jail where they are someone else’s problem. So the scene is set, it is 4:00 Monday afternoon and enter stage left Mrs Menorrhagia and her three little snots.
I just knew that this was going to be a horrid experience. She was completely washed out and the kids, who were 3, 4 and 5 were in absolute command. She asked them what they wanted to eat and they wiped their foul trotters all over my display cabinet before screaming out their orders. Of course they ordered the stickiest of stickies and demonstrated how they derived nourishment by smearing food over their faces and soaking it in through the epidermis. Mrs. Menorrhagia, presumably by way of an apology, proffered the fact that snot one had just been enrolled in the local catholic school but the others were too little. Well if catholic schools in the US are the same as they are in the UK that should teach them all a valuable lesson. There is a delicious irony in being educated by the Little Sisters of Mercy who spend the next eight years beating the living crap out of you with rulers and strops. I imagine them now roasting in Hades whilst sucking on Beelzebub’s cloven hooves but I digress. Snot one then drops its glass of milk everywhere and I really thought that Mrs. Menorrhagia was going to cry so with a heavy heart and a cheery smile I amble over to clean up the mess. The milk dropper then looks at me and says “Hey Coffee Bitch, why are you so fat?”. Mrs. Menorrhagia looks at me with her gray complexion and wan smile and says, “They are just practicing their first amendment”. “That’s OK” I reply, “ I can totally respect that, so little girl the reason that I am so fat is that every time I hump your Mommy she gives me a cookie”. How’s that for the first amendment, now let me show you my second amendment you little snot. As you might imagine that put a cap on an otherwise fine afternoon. Mrs. Menorrhagia gathered her possessions and her snots and swept out totally failing to realize that it is customary, nay obligatory, to tip me. Cleaning up afterwards I discovered a huge amount of fecal material ground into the doormat. WTF! Subsequent investigation revealed that it didn’t taste of faeces but rather of chocolate. I assume that one of the snots dropped one of the bosses delicious chocolate fudge muffins and in the panic to get out without leaving a tip, the herd trampled it asunder. Every day I get a little more pro choice.

Coffee and Learning

Things that I learned this weekend

I learned that, courtesy of the laws of physics, the freezer is not a good place to hide my secret beer stash. Yes I know, everyone knows that, but the beer was warm, I was thirsty and apparently forgetful as well. You would think that the beer would freeze and the tin would rupture and that would be it. Sadly it is not that simple. What happens is that the water freezes first (and there is a lot of water in beer) and the alcohol freezes later. This means that the beer forms some sort of slurpy that is neither ice nor water but just makes a nasty mess that runs down the side of the freezer. I still don’t know why I did this but I just wondered what a beer slurpy was going to taste like so I took a lick. Big mistake. In an instant my tongue was welded fast to the inside wall of the freezer. After about an hour (and I still think she was turning a deaf ear) the boss heard my grunts of panic and came to assist. Now she could of poured warm water down the side of the freezer or perhaps used a rubber spatula to ease me apart from the freezer. No she reached down, grabbed me by the shopping and pulled hard. She later explained that she was merely using the band aid method (short, sharp shock) but like a ripped of band aid leaves a residue on your skin, so I left a residue of taste buds on the freezer wall. Oh well that might come in handy should I ever be involved in an intimate relationship with a certain Ms. Hilton.

I also learned that the black wire hurts. Yes I know I should have turned the power off first but it was a simple job and I know what I am doing. I actually knew that it is not the black wire that hurts but rather the copper bit at the end you need to avoid. What I overlooked was the fact that if the copper bit touches a metal bit that you are holding in the other hand, that is the same as touching the copper bit. So we had flash, crack, tingling feeling all over followed by a nasty warm squelchy feeling down below. Crap! “Yes boss I know, it must be those inconsiderate bastards at Redneck Power Inc., I’m sure they will be back on line soon dearest”. Now where is the breaker box? Eventually I found the breaker only to discover that a very hidden earth trip had also popped. Oh Lord is this ever going to end? Well of course, being the genius that I am it did end and now I just need to hide the evidence by burning my boxers. Remember children Mr. Fork and Mrs. Outlet are not good friends.

I learned that not all fast food is the same. As I have mentioned before we have a dearth of haute cuisine in Smalltown. This weekend we were in town purchasing beer and shotgun shells (a dangerous combination at the best of times) when the boss offered to stump up for a lunch. We decided on a burger joint and had the most miserable of times. The customers were being real ugly to the staff and the staff, in response, were showing complete indifference. The food wasn’t too shabby but because of the atmosphere we just mindlessly shoveled it down at got out as quick as possible. It would be invidious of me to name names so I will. It was Burger King.The next day we were driving to Collegetown to hook up with FOTL1 and murder some clay pigeons when the boss once again offered to stump up for breakfast. Now call me a redneck hill billy peasant if you will but if I am eating breakfast I want to be eating at the Waffle House. The Collegetown Waffle House was buzzing when we entered. The good ol’ boys were bellied up to the bar and mercilessly taunting the servers. The ladies were in consequence pumping estrogen and flirting outrageously. Everyone was full of caffeine and cholesterol and having a great time. In the midst of all this mayhem a single cook takes shouted orders from four servers and gets every order right. Good-natured jokes and plenty of laughter, our server served us with a great breakfast and a beaming smile (I think she wanted me). When you drop a big old belch outside a Waffle House on a Sunday morning you just know the day isn’t gonna get better than this. Bring on the Monday I’m ready.