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.