The End

That's it, I'm done. It seemed like a good idea at the time but the novelty of writing a blog about a Coffee House has worn thin and to be quite frank it goes against my mantra. Many years ago a wise man once told me that everything had to be just for fun and I guess I ran out of fun. It is not that I ran out of stories (thanks to Bertie and Co. the stories will never end), but it all seemed such a nause writing them down.

So that is it, don't come back here there is nothing for you, just move on, I feel your loss. Still if you really want to continue to dip into my life (and if you do might I respectfully suggest that you get one of your own). Click here.

Goodbye forever.

TCB

Coffee and Salad

As our regular patrons will know the Boss puts on a special lunch every day. I don’t know how she does it as it is my avowed intent to stay out of the kitchen forever, but she does, and who am I to ask questions?

Today’s piece de resistance (as the Germans say) is a Caesar Salad with anchovies so I thought that I would share with you the reason a Caesar Salad is called a Caesar Salad

In 31 AD Julius Caesar was having his birthday in Londinium, which as you are well aware eventually became London. The local tribes known as the Angles (from which we derive the term Anglo-Saxons) hated the Romans whom they correctly thought of as foreign invaders. The maurauding tribes were, however, very much smitten with a Roman import know as lettuce which previously had not been seen in England. So the bandits invade Julius Caesar's birthday party seeking the said lettuce. Caesar shows them a truly beautiful salad to which the bandit chief replies, "We come to seize the salad, not to praise it!"

And you thought that today was going to be wasted. Now get back to work.

TCB

Coffee and more Internet

Do you remember all the nausea I experienced trying to set up an Internet connection? Well you can remind yourself here and here and here and here and here. Finally we ended up with two different service providers and as one was free I was cool with having one for me and one for the hoi polloi. The salespeople from the free service promised me an upgrade to 5Mbits, a portfolio of promotional stuff and a $75 commission for every sucker I converted to them. Sadly none of this materialized but what the hell I still had free DSL. Then without warning the modem started flashing all of its lights like a disco on acid and making strange noises which must have translated as “Argghh I am about to die”, which is indeed what it did. Then I discovered that the Smalltown Telephone Company had pulled the plug on the DSL line. What a bunch of cheapskates. These Scrooge like antics, coupled with the stories that I hear concerning the reliability of the 2 wire router lead me to recommend the Smalltown Alternative IP Provider, however………….

This month my bill was up from its normal $42 to a staggering $153 (an I assure you that I did indeed stagger when I opened the envelope). Closer examination showed that the difference was due to 4.4 Gbytes of overages. Now FOTL2 is home for the summer and up until now things have been just sweet. She of course denies everything and I hate to put 2 and 2 together but I know the little hellion is guilty as sin. They say that if you love someone set them free, if they don’t come back they were never yours. If on the other hand you set them free and they come back, eat your food, mess up your home, watch your television and rack up your Internet bill then they are probably your student child.

As a postscript I spoke to the wonderful people in the billing department and they agreed that I had suffered enough (I expect that they know FOTL1 and FOTL2) and agreed to drop the overages. In view of this supreme piece of customer relations I shall do the unusual and out them. The Coffee Bitch recommends the great guys at B2X Online.

Now if you will excuse me I need to download some vast amounts of smut while the Boss still thinks it is FOTL2.

Striking whilst the iron is hot.
TCB

Coffee and the brown stuff

One of the benefits of working in a place where I meet lots of people is that if I whine on long enough, eventually I will find someone with a solution to whatever the vexation special of the day is. Recently my customers have found me an honest roofer (I will let you know how that works out), an automotive paint sprayer and 320 square feet of scrap corrugated tin (don’t ask).

Last week I was bleating on to all and sundry about how horrid the Kissboty County dirt is and how badly my lawn is faring seeing how it hasn’t rained for about 100 years. I was explaining how I hate to use chemicals and what I really wanted was to add some body to the nasty soil. Well right on cue a nice lady mentioned that she had a donkey (or an ass or a mule, I really don’t know the difference) and a pile of donkey poo. All I had to do was drive over and collect it. Well, as you know, as a result of my shenanigans at the Coffee House I am usually up to my neck in doo doo anyway, so a spot of shoveling wasn’t going to make a difference to my life and we made an appointment. The nice lady offered me directions but I declined as I have a GPS in the truck so I just needed the address.

On the appointed day we set off for what started as a pleasant jaunt through the leafy byways of old Virginny (as no one calls Virginia in these parts). Things were going well until we flashed past a strange looking sign. It was yellow with black dots and just as I said, “I wonder what that means” we rounded a corner and discovered that it meant the pavement was about to end, and we were on gravel. In truth the sign actually meant that the road would turn to gravel, then dirt, then mud and then water. It is not possible to exaggerate the crappiness of this “road”. We drove for miles and miles in four-wheel drive, axle deep in slime and slithering sideways at every turn. Throughout this drama the GPS helpfully reminded me to “turn right in 2 miles, approaching in 30 minutes”, 4 mph top speed.

Now the Virginia legislature (may Allah shrivel their private parts) has decided that Virginia drivers who fail to use a turn signal or other serious offense are going to be fined $2000 and this fine will be used to improve the roads. (As an aside this law does not apply to out of state drivers, so come on in chaps, it’s a free ride). I therefore respectfully suggest that the boys in Richmond start with SR715, or at least put up a sign that says the road will become almost impassable in 5 miles so turn around now while you have room to turn.

Eventually we arrived some 45 minutes late and I confess in a foul mood. I chased the donkey around with the pooper scooper and finally collected a truck load of donkey dump. Needless to say I decided to ditch the GPS and get direction back that did not involve a washed out logging trail.

On the off chance that you may think I have exaggerated this tale I challenge you to drive SR715. To make it really exciting go to your video store first and rent the movie Wrong Turn.

Coffee and Food

Funeral Blues (Song IX / from Two Songs for Hedli Anderson)

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum.

My life is over, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead.

Scribbling in the sky the message, fun is dead,

Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

It was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest.

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought we would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

Hide all the food, I cannot buy it;

For the Boss has put me on a diet.

With apologies to;

Wystan Hugh Auden (1907-1973)

Coffee and (de) Construction

Directly opposite our little slice of caffeine heaven is a funny looking building that has been empty for the longest time. It was rumored that it was to be demolished but nothing ever seemed to happen. Then this morning a monstrous machine and its baby brother were parked on the sidewalk so it looked like we were set to go. As this looked like it was to be my only intellectual stimulation for the morning (what with Bertie failing to appear) I thought I might sit in the window taking a few snaps. The backhoe wriggled itself into position and extended its bucket. As it reached out a small amount of debris fell out of the bucket and showered a lady who was walking out of the front door.

Now I am the first to admit that what I know about building demolition can be written on a postage stamp and still leave room for the US Constitution but in my opinion, and I could be wrong here, the first thing that you want to do before sending a shanty off to building Valhalla is to make sure that it is unoccupied.

Still as we say here in Kissbotty County all’s well that ends. The building came down and there was no loss of life. All in all rather a disappointing day really.

Coffee and Genealogy

As the regular reader (all two of you) will know, Bertie Grabbitt (Sue, Grabbitt and Runne LLP) generally picks up his morning coffee and lingers whilst we put the world to rights. This morning Bertie recalled a tale involving his genealogy. Grandfather, Father and himself. Of course I knew that he was making it all up. After all, show me an attorney who actually knows who his father is.

Coffee and Guns (part , oh whatever)

Finally we got some shootin’ in. One of our faithful customers who has a spot of land in the depths of Kissbotty county invited us to his place in order to mix and match guns and have a little fun. You will recall from earlier blogs that the hunting experience in the UK involves considerable volumes of food and it looks like the same applies in rural Kissbotty although I believe it is called victuals or something. Anyway the preshooting experience included gallons of coffee, OJ and mountains of food and after that, well the shootin’ was the cherry on the cake.

They gave the Boss a 38 Walther PPK to try out. (In case that rings a bell, it is James Bond’s sidearm of choice). Well after she finished everyone’s mouth just dropped open. It may have been the fact that she killed three coke cans out of four (and let me tell you people, at 14 yards that is no mean feat). Or it may have been that as she did it she screamed “Take that you motherless little sons of a ^%$#@!. Whatever, it was all round a damned impressive performance, which may be repeated in the Coffee House one day so just watch out all you complainers.

After we ran the gamut of 44’s and 45’s I pulled out my 50 caliber Desert Eagle, which really is a dichotomy of a firearm. The DE is about the size of a cinder block and weighs about the same. When you pull it out at the range, mere mortals quiver at your overt manliness and nubile virgins (who are few and far between here in Kissbotty) instantly throw themselves at your feet and offer their virtue. However the DE has a major design flaw and that is that the spent round is ejected not from the side where it should be, but vertically. This ensures that a red-hot casing is almost guaranteed to hit you in the face. If you are really unlucky it will also jam across the bridge of your safety glasses causing you to scream like a girl and ruin the illusion of your manliness. It is in short a piece of Israeli crap. I actually asked Magnum Research what the deal was and they replied that this can happen if the shooter is firing “limp wristed”. In England being limp wristed is an anachronism for batting on the other team, so not only is the DE a piece of crap but the manufacturers think that I am a gay boy. On a more hetero note I also use a Smith and Wesson Magnum 500 which has the twin virtues of being the most powerful handgun bar none and also American made.

Now I am off to buy a Walther PPK. I know that 38 caliber is a tad girly but if the Boss can use it to blow the testes off the flies in the kitchen then at least I will have some distraction during the quiet times. By the way before you start to whine about buying American, the PPK is made under license in the US by the finest gun maker in the world, Smith and Wesson.

Ka-Boom
TCB

Coffee and the 4th

Listen up people, you are going to have to stop asking if I enjoyed the 4th. Of course I didn’t. I am English, we lost you insensitive clods. Asking me if I enjoyed the 4th is akin to asking Mrs. Lincoln if she enjoyed the play so knock if off.

Actually one of my customers (and you know who you are) had the audacity to ask if the English celebrate Independence Day. Natch I replied, “We sure do, we call it thanksgiving”.

As it happens I had a very nice day as the Sci Fi channel had a marathon of the Twilight Zone and those were the days when you colonials could make television programs. It was also better than last year, check it out. Is it really over a year since I started this nonsense?

Coffee and Tea

OK, when I am explaining the subtle differences between Irish Breakfast and English Afternoon it is not smart for you to ask if I keep English Midday. I know that you are just trying to impress your friends but it is hardly impressive when I roll around the floor laughing and wetting my pants. Best leave the choice of tea to me, agreed?
By the way the next person who asks for cream with their tea will be banned for life. If you want to ruin your tea I believe that there is a Starbucks in Bigtown somewhere. From now on you decide if you want black, brown, green, red or white tea and I will prepare it with the correct accoutrements. On second thoughts that is way to complicated, you say hot tea and I will bring you a perfectly brewed pot based on my assessment of your personality.

Coffee and Church

Last Friday I broke the habit of a lifetime and went to church. Well it wasn’t really church but rather a church supper type thingy, still it was a close call. I thought that Kissbotty County was the buckle on the bible belt but as we headed south into Flatus County I realized that I was wrong, for here are churches every 100 yards or so. I didn’t know that there were so many flavors of religion, Presbyterian, Apostolic, Lutheran, Baptist, Gospel, the list is seemingly endless and it is all very confusing. As far as I am concerned there are two religions, the Christians and the Muslims. The Christians comprise of two tribes, the Protestants and the Catholics. The tribes hate each other and from time immemorial they have tried to kill each other. The Muslims comprise of two tribes, the Sunnis and the Shiites. The two tribes hate each other and from time immemorial they have tried to kill each other. In addition the Christians hate the Muslims and try to kill them. In a complete lack of contrast the Muslims hate the Christians and try to kill them. There is probably a lesson here but I just can’t see it.

So I met a nice crowd of people including one old lady who had just had a cedar demolish her home in the recent storm. She was of the opinion that the good Lord would provide and I guess I spoiled her evening by speculating that this may be the same good Lord who had just destroyed her home. As you can imagine the evening went downhill after that, mainly because the Boss kept glaring daggers at me and drawing her finger across her throat. Honestly some people just can’t take a joke. On the brighter side, these Baptists know how to eat, did I ever chow down. I suppose that it would be uncharitable and curmudgeonly of me to criticize the band, so I will. Every song had lyrics along the lines of “every day brings me closer to you dear Lord” and at the end of every song people would shout out “Praise Jesus”. It was like these people actually want to die. It is no wonder that people say the Devil has all the best music. For the record I want to live forever. Well perhaps that is a slight exaggeration. I want to die at 97 having just introduced a Dallas cheerleader to her first multiple orgasm and the last words I hear on earth will be “Oh CB you have ruined me for all other men”.

Much later that evening back at Chateau Coffee I had this uneasy feeling that something was wrong, I just couldn’t put my finger on it until I realized with shock that it was Friday night and I was sober, what a nightmare. Saturday mornings aren’t the same without the usual conversation.

CB ; “Oh my head, Jesus what happened”?
Boss; “ Why do you do it”?
CB; (very much under breath) “Just trying to drink you pretty my love”
Boss; Well I have no sympathy, you really are a pig”
CB; “Please stop talking, where are the aspirins”?

The great thing is that when I wake up I know that I am going to feel better and that is more than the Baptists can say, haha.

Praise Jesus

TCB

Coffee and Pies (Part II)

Good grief, is this pie thing ever going to stop. OK this is positively the last post (well until at least next year). Some of the ladies of the town have now come into the Coffee House to berate me and put me right. Apparently the ladies don’t have time to be makin’ no damned pies, as they are too busy pleasurin’ their menfolks in bizarrely exotic ways.
And that is all the correspondence fit to be bloged.

Coffee and Pies (part III)

After posting Coffee and Pies I have been informed that I dodged a bullet with this judging business. It transpires that the ladies of Kissbotty County who do bother to enter their pies take this thing way too seriously and apparently hell hath no fury like a woman whose pies have been scorned.

After last year’s fair the pie judge was found dead under strange circumstances with a plastic bag over his head and a third place rosette inserted into his rectum. Apropos nothing at all, all of the Kissbotty deputies are women, I don’t know what this says about the Sheriff’s proclivities but I can tell you they were pretty damn quick to close the case and according to the crime report it was an autoerotic misadventure. Now the plastic bag I can understand, after all who amongst us hasn’t felt the urge to slip a Ziplock over our head and pick up a copy of Cheeks Apart Plus (volume 27), I know that I have. Still I can’t help feeling that the ladies in brown were overly keen to hush things up and perhaps that rosette was a bit of a clue.

Anyhow as a result of last year’ spot of unpleasantness it seems like the ladies are keeping a low profile this year and this is the reason why I only had one pie to judge. So I did not get to scorn anyone’s pies and for this small mercy my colon and I will be eternally grateful.

From now on I shall restrict myself to judging the Boss’s cottage pie, which incidentally has nothing at all to do with this fine old British Tradition.

Yours in mastication,

TCB

Coffee and Pies

I don’t know why but we don’t have a county fair here in Kissbotty, it’s a shame but there you go. We do, however, have a fair and what a jolly good one it is too. In fact I have been to County Fairs that aren’t a patch on whatever we have instead of a County Fair. I spoke to Kissbotty’s tourism officers and they have promised me that next year we will have a County Fair, their excuse is that this year they were concentrating on the fishing thingy instead. I suppose from a revenue point of view the fishing thing makes more sense but you know my views on fishing. (Unless you are dressed in waders and casting flies, which does require a modicum of skill).

A few weeks ago the Boss and I were invited to be judges, I got pies and the Boss got cakes. I can’t tell you how thrilled I was, as to be honest, eating pies is where I am a Viking. Almost everywhere else in the world the word pie is prefixed with a silent but understood meat. Steak and Ale, home made Pork Pie and thrill of thrills a Steak and Kidney Pudding is like a thousand angels copulating in your mouth. So last Saturday the boss and I arrived, clipboards and silver sampling forks in hand and discovered that here in Kissbotty the word pie does not involve the meat word. To heap disappointment upon disappointment there was only one entry. Imagine that in the whole of Kissbotty County there is only one woman who can make a pie. In a fit of pique I awarded her a desultory blue ribbon and stomped off to have a look at the barbeque smokers. I really don’t know what is up with Kissbotty but there were only two barbeque entries (and between you and me, one of them was using propane, how inappropriate is that)? My next project is to build a smoker so I figure with a field of three entrants I should be in with a good chance, especially if someone were to accidentally tip a bucket of urine down the smoke stacks of the competition.

So if you want to unmask the Coffee Bitch (aka the Smalltown phantom flasher) I will be at the 2008 Kissbotty County Fair in the barbeque section standing next to an empty bucket.

Coffee and the squirts

In Walmart the other day I saw some packets of Immodium in the last minute impulse-buy rack by the cash register. Now candy I can understand, but you've either got chronic diarrohea or you haven't.

Coffee, sparks and colons

Generally we have a pleasant little relationship here in the Coffee House. The Boss makes the muffins, preps up the salad, stirs the soup and generally flits around the kitchen doing magical things that are a mystery to me. Whilst listening to the happy sounds of a woman working in the background, I scan the Internet looking for world situations that may be in need of my advice. Currently I am trying to resolve the issue of the former British colony of Rhodesia, now known as Zimbabwe. Inflation in Zimbabwe is now running at 3000% and unemployment is 80%. It really is quite a vexing situation and alas it is not the only former British colony that gives me cause for concern.

So you can imagine how annoyed I was to have my concentration broken by the Boss telling me that most of the sockets in the kitchen were dead. Breaking away from Robert Mugabe and his crooked henchmen I set off to reset the breaker (which by the way is situated in the restroom, how dumb is that?). Now when it comes to this electrical stuff I can recognize a tripped breaker and I can also recognize an untripped breaker and we had the latter type so it was a call to our landlord, Kissbotty County. To their credit they sent a man out within minutes although after he had retrod my footsteps he spent an inordinately long time scratching his gonads and muttering softly. After and hour or so he called for reinforcements and we soon had two sparkies scratching and mumbling. I watched with mild disinterest as we approached closing time, hit closing, got well past closing and then something that I had not taken into account happened.

I have the most well trained colon that you can imagine; in fact it is no exaggeration to say that you can set your clock by my colon. However I don’t use public toilets. Call me a weirdo if you will but I never have and I never will. So remember that;

a) we are well past closing time
b) the contact breaker panel is in the restroom
c) the restroom is overflowing with sparkies

Out of the blue I get a colon message “OK CB ready when you are”. Ooops thinks I. Ten minutes later “Hey CB, lets go here”. Another 10 minutes “CB YOU BASTARD GIVE IT UP”. Finally the sparkies call it a day and promise to return in the morning. 5 milliseconds later I am in the company van driving home at 90 miles per hour using my left foot on the accelerator and my right on the brake with my colon now screaming “ready or not, here we go”. Of course I made it home safely and I consoled myself by filling in an overtime form. Needless to say it was rejected, as I hadn’t obtained prior management approval. I tell you sometimes this Coffee House is like working for the Third Reich. In fact if there is anything to this Buddhist nonsense I bet Mr A Hilter has been reincarnated as the Boss. I might just sneak up behind her and shout Zieg Heil and see if her right arm twitches.

TCB
PS In fairness to the boys, they returned really early and found a deeply hidden (by me, my bad) ground fault trip. Hats off to the Kissbotty electricians.

The Bitch rambles

Summer is here at last and school’s out. What with the hot weather we are currently being inundated with under aged and under dressed young ladies. I suppose it is not unique to Kissbotty County but here skimpy seems to be the style and daily I am confronted with little girls wearing pretty much nothing at all. It looks like most of them got out of school and spent the weekend sunbathing as the are all pink except where the straps of their bikini tops were. (Not a sophisticated look girls). Sadly the ones that have not already given themselves a melanoma will end up with skin like John Wayne’s arse by the time they are 35. Still why should I care, I am sure that there will be a fresh batch of nubile young ladies in 20 years. High School kids, you gotta love them. Actually you probably shouldn’t love them but you get my point. I was reading the New York Times last weekend when I spotted an article about how old folk are acting younger these days, it was titled “50 it’s the new 40”. It got me thinking “16 it’s the new 21”; well at least that is what I will be telling the judge next week.

We have just had some big fishing competition here in Kissbotty. Apparently it was sponsored by ESPN or something similar, not that I would know, as I have no interest in that sort of nonsense. What caught my eye however was the prize money. The winner picked up a cool $100,000 and even the eighth place (a local lad apparently) grabbed a $50,000 boat. Jesus what a soft touch, I mean how hard can it be to catch fish? (This is coming from someone who spent 6 consecutive weekends not catching a turkey). As far as I am concerned a fishing rod is a stick with a worm at each end. Still at least they were using catch and release rules, which is lucky for the fish. Shame we can’t use the same rules for genital herpes.

Coffee and Cake

Yesterday the Boss cooked a strawberry cheesecake. Actually I am not sure that cooked is the correct term, in fact I have no idea how one makes cheesecake. My theory is that it is far safer for me to keep as large a distance between me and the kitchen as possible. Anyhow she really surpassed herself and this thing was a piece de resistance. I would like to report on how it tasted but apparently I have put on a couple of ounces since we opened the shop and as a result I am now banned from all the pastries, isn’t life cruel, temptation beyond endurance.
So in the afternoon one of the court officials spots the cake and after a few moments of indecision gives in and purchases a slice for her and her daughter to share. When her daughter saw it she apparently said “To hell with sharing” and rushed over to get her own slice, which she took back to the sheriff’s office. A few moments later our trusty trustee turned up and as you know I am morbidly fascinated by his “career”. Well he said “You got cheesecake; man I haven’t had cheesecake since 2005”. From this I deduce that he has been a guest of Virginia for 2 years so his crime must have been somewhat serious. Yet he walks the streets of Smalltown and has enough money to buy cheesecake. My curiosity is burning me up and before long I am going to have to just ask him what he did to get such a sweet job and how do I apply.

Coffee and the General

As the faithful reader will recall our little coffee house is situated right next to the Smalltown courthouse. Of course you won’t know, and why should you, that there is a very fine statue in the courthouse garden of General Jubal Early who fought bravely for the Confederacy and I quote.

"Virginia holds the dust of many a faithful son, but not of one whom loved her more, who fought for her better, or would have died for her more willingly."
Senator John Warwick Daniel – 1894

During the war of northern aggression,as it should be correctly described, the Yankee hoard could not defeat the General and General Lee (God rest his soul) referred to him as “my bad boy”. Even Lincoln begrudgingly admitted that the heroic actions of Jubal extended the war (of northern aggression) by at least 9 months.

Sadly the brave General, who was a son of Smalltown, was no match for a drunken redneck in a pickup truck. The General is now a pile of smashed granite and as a final indignity he was decapitated by a F150 and his head rolled down the hill, ironically in the direction of the hospital.

This morning (and I swear this is all true) I caught Bertie Grabbitt (Sue Grabbitt and Runne LLP) inspecting the scene. I naturally assumed that he was now plumbing the depths of ambulance chasing, that is to say statue chasing. However, it turns out that I was wrong as the razor sharp mind of Bertie is working on a defense. How can you defend a drunken redneck in a pickup who decapitates a General I hear you cry, well from the mind of Bertie comes the defense.

Apparently you cannot build a brick postbox on a highway. This is because if a motorist hits a solid postbox then the Post Office is liable. So if the General was standing too close to the road then the drunken redneck may have a claim. Only in America. Of course the faithful reader will remember that Bertie is from New York and I think that says it all. Watch this space I shall faithfully report the legal proceedings.

TCB

PS To be pathetically serious for the briefest of moments I am pissed. We live in a throwaway society. Spouse bothering you? Throw them away. Architecturally atheistic building needs maintenance? Tear it down and build another out of pre-formed concrete. General Jubal Early has stood outside the courthouse for well over a hundred years and now he has gone, murdered by one of his own. I hope that he will be replaced in bronze and granite but I expect doing nothing or, even worse, concrete will prove to be cheaper. Thank God it is Friday, in 12 hours I shall be in the hot tub sleeping in the arms of my favorite Greek God, Bacchus, and General Jubal A Early will be a distant memory of when life was just a little better.

The Coffee Bitch heads north

Not only has FOTL1 flown the nest, she has also flown the state. She has left God’s own country and now resides in Maryland. Back in the jolly old UK a person of somewhat effete mannerisms is known as a Mary so it is a constant source of amusement to me that the limp wristed have a whole state named after them. Of course the state could have been named by suck up colonists after some old queen but I think that you will agree my hypothesis is vastly more amusing.

The only thing that FOTL1 could not get up to the land of French poodles was her car (she was driving the U Haul) so it fell to me to chauffer her ancient but much revered Tonka toy 4 wheel drive the bone shaking 276 miles north. Thus it came to pass that at 6:00 on a Saturday we headed north with the boss following in the truck. I really am the worst morning person in the world so it is a mystery to me as to why I am always out of bed before 6:00. The highlight of the trip (and brilliantly planned by me) was a stop at exit 243, specifically for the purposes of breakfasting at the Waffle House. I tell you, if I am on the road and in need of a breakfast the only food that will hit the spot is the Waffle House All Star breakfast and a gallon of coffee. Just typing this sets me off like one of Pavlov’s dogs. I still have not worked out why I am so addicted as they really are fly blown health hazards (hence the family name Waffle Fly) but I love the places. I have this theory that they are all delivered on trailers and even brand new they are delivered with cracked tiles, fingerprints on the glassware and restrooms 2 inches deep in urine. Next time that you are in a Waffle Fly check it out and you will see what I mean. Talking of the restrooms I have a theory on why they are always flooded. You see the first guy misses the pan and leaves a small dribble on the floor. The next guy decided that he doesn’t want his shoelaces dragging through the yellow river so he hangs back a foot or so and misses even more. This goes on through the day until by about late afternoon the Waffle Fly clients are standing by the main door and urinating into the restaurant in the general direction of the bogs. FOTL1’s fiancé, Slugger, says that this is why he will only use a Waffle Fly late at night after many pints of beer. In this way he can’t focus on the dirt and squalor but can still taste the food. Everyone to his or her own but I say a little e coli is a small price to pay for a slap up breakfast.

As you can imagine the rest of the journey was a bit of an anticlimax until we hit the Capitol beltway, where there really should be a sign saying “Please check your brain before entering”. I had already told the Boss that under no circumstances was she to leave more than a one-inch space between the Tonka toy and the truck, and for most of the way all I could see in my mirror was that huge Ram emblem. Then she temporarily lost concentration and let the gap grow to two inches, which of course was the cue for some Maryland moron to switch lanes. All I could see was 4 tons of Dodge standing on its front wheels to avoid bringing certain death and destruction to manicured cretin in a Honda Civic. As a slight aside, here in God’s own country, you don’t actually need insurance, all you have to do is give a $500 bond to the DMV and you are legal. It is my intention therefore to buy a real old clonker SUV and weld Armco to all four sides. I shall them cruise the beltway and give no quarter. As soon as some vegetable rips the side off his BMW I shall stop on the shoulder and explain why I have no insurance and wish him the most pleasant of days. I reckon that within 6 months I will have creamed about 1000 cars. I wonder if a local body shop might like to sponsor me and make this project pay.
Cutting a long story short we eventually arrived and several beers later the beltway was just a vague memory. The astute reader will doubtless recall that I used to live in northern Virginia but in just a year I had forgotten what a lunatic asylum the DC Metro area is. Thousands of people all wanting to share my space, parking spaces that are the exact width of a small car (let alone a man’s truck) and no, and I mean no, green spaces. Still the hospitality of FOTL1 and Slugger was top notch and they even gave up their bed, kindly ignoring the inevitable beer/bladder related incident.

The next morning we headed south again, hitting the beltway at 10:00 on a Sunday morning and yes it was once again like race day at Daytona. It rained all the way home but it was sunny in my heart for I was heading back to the mountains where a man can breathe without choking on the fumes of a thousand Mary’s cologne.

Now to get this mattress to the land fill before the Boss notices.

Coffee and Prizes

Well that was a strange week. I actually got sued by a customer, thus proving once again that no good deed goes unpunished. The Boss decided that we should run a little competition thingy to increase sales of the espresso drinks. We bought a whole load of those stickers that you peel apart to see what you won and slapped them on the cups. Now I specifically ordered a ratio of 99.9% “Sorry please try again” to winners so I was amazed when the very first customer leapt in the air screaming, “I’ve won a motor home”. Clearly there was some awful mistake here but she wasn’t having any of it and when the Motor home didn’t materialize she had me up in front of Judge Mental in the District court. It took all of Bertie Grabbitt’s (Sue, Grabbitt and Runne LLP) oratory skills to explain that the label actually read “Win a Bagel”

I tell you as soon as my 401(k) plan kicks in (aka the Virginia lottery) I am long gone.

The Bitch bitches (again)

Ignoring wiser council I decided to get a fifth opinion on this turkey hunting business. As an experiment I also decided to see what getting out of bed at 5:00 would be like after guzzling a bottle of Chianti the night before. As experiments go it was probably not my finest hour but, as I am sure you will agree, unless you try these things you will never know. So once again I climbed the north face of the Eiger but this time with a pounding head and little black dots floating in my eyes (where do those dots come from)? Yet again the wily bird evaded us and this time even Tonto gave up so I was back at Chateau Coffee (sans le meat) by 11:00. The good news is that turkey season is now over and the next item on the agenda is Dove. The even better news is that one cannot hunt Dove before 12:00, finally I shall be both hunting and lying in my pit; bonus! Because it was such a nice afternoon (and not as the Boss pointlessly suggested because I was hung-over) we spent the afternoon hanging out on the deck. Of course ever silver lining has a cloud and my Saturday afternoon sloth meant that we had to do the Sam’s Club run on Sunday. Don’t ever be tempted to do this folks; the Sunday crowd is even scummier than the Saturday crowd, I expect the regular dross are in Church leaving the dregs of the dross to bother me.

Note to Sam Walton. If you place a row of cobblestones between the doors and the parking lot this will ensure that flatbed carts get a good shaking as your customers leave. This will result in at least two items falling off much to the amusement of your minimum wage retardees. Oh wait a minute you already did this. Well you could also make your parking lot with a 5% slope. This will make it impossible to let go of a cart that weighs 400lbs for fear it will run down the hill and smash into some poor bastards truck at about 35mph. What’s that? You already covered that? Of course you have. Back in the UK they have the Monopolies Commission (ironic note here, why is there only one)? They stop stores like Sam’s stitching up a neighborhood. Sadly Virginia has the finest politicians that money can buy which is presumably why the nearest Costco is 95 miles away in North Carolina.

So after Sam’s we are back at the Coffee House, unloading the truck, loading the shop, cleaning, restocking and prepping for Monday. Finally we are done and we set off for home, cutting through the court complex as a short cut. There we spot a freshly detailed Sheriff’s car with our local trustee sitting on a stool admiring his handiwork. I stopped to exchange pleasantries with the Bro’s and as I drove off I reflected, not for the first time, what a far more relaxed life he has than I. It is only a matter of days before I expose myself (so to speak) as the Smalltown flasher and end up in the town pokey for a 6 stretch. Three hots and a cot, a little spot of fetching and carrying and what is more washing the Sheriff’s car is infinitely easier than washing the brute of a Ram that I have to clean.

Easy street here I come, Zzzzip.

TCB

Coffee and Marketing

I might have to reassess my marketing skills with regard to the Coffee House. Yesterday a young lady came into the shop and asked how the wifi worked. I told her that once she became a customer I would give her the password and she was in business. An hour later she settled her account and gave me a $2 tip (nice). She then told me that she wished that she had known that we were here the previous day as she had driven the 30 miles to Bigtown looking for wireless. She eventually found herself in a well-known coffee chain store that charged an exorbitant amount for a coffee plus, and get this, $10 for the use of the Internet. After she left I considered her $1.25 for the coffee (cogs $0.50) and $2 tip (of which the IRS will get 40%, natch) and wondered if I really did have my finger on the pulse. Still it doesn’t pay to be too greedy, as those painted Jezebels at Smalltown’s library have already undercut us all by offering free Internet.

Speaking of marketing I think that I may have stumbled upon a new business model for the Coffee House. You see when it rains here in Smalltown people don’t fancy walking the hill for lunch, but they will telephone in a to go order. Most of the government employees seem to use our trusty trustee to fetch their lunches so they don’t even have to get wet. Actually this trustee business puzzles me, you see he has been in business just as long as I have. This means that his crime must have been relatively severe to warrant such a long sentence and yet minor enough that he can walk the streets of Smalltown with pockets full of other people’s money. I would guess hog humping or wife beating but I don’t think that either of these are actually illegal in Kissbotty County. Now with telephone orders I can pace them according to how busy the boss is. So if she is lounging around then the lunch will be ready in 5. Conversely if she is busy then “your lunch will be ready for collection in 30”. This means that we get a nice low stress throughput of clientele. It also means that if the Boss has bothered me I can wait until she is really snowed under and then tell the Circuit Court that 12 jury lunches will be ready in 5 and to send the trustee down now.
Anyhow the point is that I am seriously thinking of telephone orders only, so you come into the shop decide what you want and then use your cell phone to call it in. I will see how fast the Boss’s arms are flapping and give you an eta on your eats. The only disadvantages that I can see are that a) we will get through a lot of to go boxes and b) no-one seems to tip on carryouts. However I think that we can overcome this with what I call a non-discretionary gratuity donation (my man at the IRS says that, unlike tips, donations are tax exempt). So bring your cell phones and dig deep people, we need to make this work, I have a wireless network to support.

Coffee and Glasses

Saturday night and FOTL1 and FOTL2 are home. We all decide that with Mother’s day around the corner we should eat out and by a remarkable and fortuitous stroke of luck there is no argument as we all fancy a spot of Mexican. One of the advantages of being “in the trade” is that I know where to find the Health Department reports for restaurant inspections and this is what I use these days as my dining guide. So it came to pass that we found ourselves in Santa Anna’s Revenge, Smalltown. It is not the most salubrious establishment but at least (according to Smalltown’s inspectors) the guacamole is at the correct holding temperature.

I expect it is due to my English accent but I always seem to have a problem ordering at a Mexican restaurant even though I try to speak s-l-o-w-l-y and c-o-n-c-i-s-e-l-y. So I ordered a Corona “and may I have a glass to drink it from please”. Of course I got a bottle of beer, a wedge of lime and a glass of water. It must be the English in me but drinking from the bottle is so passé, if my mother could see me she would be spinning in her quicklime. Of course I planned to ignore the water but something caught my eye and looking down I saw that my old mate Bertie Grabbitt (Sue, Grabbitt and Runne LLP) had an advert printed on the glass. Apparently he specializes in accident and personal injury although bearing in mind the class of Santa Anna’s Revenge customers I would of thought he could have used a better copy. Perhaps “When your home is mobile but your vehicle ain’t come and see Bertie”. Actually I note that he is no longer Bertie, presumably in order to assist his more cerebrally challenged clients he is now Bert, which is two less letters to spell. I can’t imagine why the old Judas didn’t come to me first but he didn’t and as he has targeted the trailer market I shall have to set my sights a little higher.

I shall be forced to offer my glasses to Percy Piles (Hemmer, Rhoyd and Piles LLP) and I have even got the copy prepared

“Lots of smiles with Percy Piles
So let’s make a date to litigate”

Watch out Bert, I have my stencil and magic marker ready to go.

Coffee and Hunting (part IV)

Well it’s official; there are no turkeys in Kissbotty County. Once again I was up at 5:00 am and ready to do battle with the wily bird. We went back to the original happy hunting ground, the one that involves climbing to the top of Kilimanjaro. We climbed and climbed and climbed and heard and saw nothing. By this time I suspect that Tonto my faithful tracker and guide is getting a touch embarrassed at our abject failure to even hear a bird so he decides to move us on. We climbed down the other side of the mountain and back up the next mountain. After an hour he moves us on and hence another mountain, and so the morning dragged on. We are hunting on 500 acres and I swear to God we walked 499 of them. 5 hours later we gave up and emerged from the woods onto the dirt track road but about 2 miles from the truck. What a morning. I got back, kicked my boots off and decided to have 5 minutes on the sofa. After a few seconds I realized how much more comfortable I would be if I put my feet up. Then how much more comfortable, if I put my head down and before I knew what was happening, well you can guess can’t you. Of I course I might be feeling a little more manly had I brought the meat home but alas and alack it was not to be.

In an earlier blog I may have rashly said how great it was to be at one with nature. Let me tell you that from now on I am going to be at one with my mattress until at least 11.00 am on a Saturday morning and all the turkeys in Virginia can kiss my hairy old English bottom all over.

Coffee and Names

When I was a lad, which admittedly was a few decades ago, people had what I can only describe as real names. You know James, Harry, Mary and that sort of thing but these days it seems to be the case that anything goes. The so-called Posh Spice (and let me tell you people, anyone born in Essex, England is far from posh) named her kid Brooklyn as that is where it was conceived. People seem to name their snots after their favorite car or even shampoo and it all seems such an abdication of parental responsibility. These kids are going to grow up and be tortured by their little playmates for having names like Apple or Honeybunch Snowflake. Anyone naming their child should spend a few minutes checking out rhyming slang and stupid sounding names. A case in point is that Brad and Angelina should have listened to this advice before naming their kid Shiloh Pitt. At some point, someone at school is going to spoonerise her name and it will all end in tears. Kissbotty County educated folks may click here.

Talking of names, my old sparring partner, Rita Whiplash has pulled off an amazing coup and I am green with jealousy. She has started to advertise herself at every Outback Steakhouse in the land. I don’t know how she did it but every coaster features Rita. Now I don’t expect you t believe me and I could hardly believe it myself but here is a picture of the obverse and reverse of an Outback coaster.



Unfortunately the Valtrex challenged and Shine addled old slapper forgot to put her contact details on the coaster and this is where I need your help. I have promised Rita that wherever I go I will ink in her number and I also told her that I would get my vast army of readers to help out as well. So please visit an Outback tonight and write on the coaster 1-900-SPA-NKME.

Rita has promised me a small commission and I have just had to buy a new coffee engine so to be quite frank I need the money.

Living off the fruits of love.
TCB

Coffee and College

Lawdy, lawdy, what a weekend, I am wrecked. As you will doubtless recall (like you care) last weekend was graduation weekend at Collegetown. As it all started at 8:00 I was out of my love chamber at 5:00 so as to make it on time. The hooding ceremony went real well and as a bonus they didn’t waste any of my time with speeches, they just got on with it. For the benefit of the hard of hearing they had one of those sign people working nineteen to the dozen. Halfway through I realized that this would be a perfect job for me to add a little fun for the deaf people, and heaven knows they need some extra fun.

Welcome to the 2007 hooding ceremony (and please fondle my buttocks). Today we celebrate the achievements of our graduate students (I am wearing women’s underwear). Before we start I would just like to say (I am soooo gay).Well you get the picture and this does not even include the obscene gestures (did he just flip me off?). Yes indeed that is a job that I could do with relish.

In contrast to the hooding ceremony the awarding of the undergraduate degrees was three hours of drawn out misery. Why on earth these people would think that I would be interested in their anecdotal stories of childhood is beyond me. To rub salt into the wounds FOTL1 told me that the college actually pays these professional bores to speak. So there is another job I could do.

Due to a bit of a cock up on the booking front I booked a birthday party for the same day as graduation. This is why I generally let the Boss do all of the work in the Coffee House whilst I put the world to rights in conversation with our customers. Well the outcome was that we had to thrash back to Smalltown and set up 20 cream teas. The only high spot of the afternoon was when one of my customers told me that she wasn’t wearing any panties. Well as I am sure you can imagine this certainly captured my attention, however as I span round I discovered to my chagrin that the confessor was about 3 years old. Her mother rushed over in a fluster of embarrassment and explained that they had just had a slight bathroom incident and no spare underwear. Apparently the little girl thought that this was so neat she was going to find “the man” and tell him. Well little girl I salute you for being so young and already realizing that the Coffee Bitch is “the man”. If your dress sense does not improve in the next 15 years come back and see me.

We were supposed to move FOTL2 out of college after graduation but due to my double booking our Saturday afternoon I, once again, found myself zipping down the interstate for the second time in two days. Has anyone else noticed what a luxurious life style college kids have these days? I only came to realize this as I loaded computers, TVs, fridges, futons and a ton of other assorted girly crap onto the truck. By the time we were finished we looked like the Clampetts going to Beverly Hills. I did try to get the Boss to sit on the futon on the way back but as usual even my smallest of dreams were dashed. I think that FOTL2 was so embarrassed by my impression of the Joad family that she just got in her car and headed north, leaving me and the Boss to haul her crap. I am tempted to make her offload the truck herself but I know that if I try that on then all her stuff will sit in the truck until August when I have to haul it back to Collegetown, and there’s a thought, in just a few short weeks I will be doing it all again.

What a life.

Coffee and the Truth

Well it is official, Cheryl has gone and she actually came in to see us for a farewell tea, which under the circumstances was jolly sweet of her. It made me feel rather sad actually. Not just because she was going as to be honest, thanks to the pharmaceutical industry, a replacement is just around the corner. No it is more to do with envying her youth. Many years ago I was doing the same thing, Bombay, Calcutta, Chittagong, Dubai, the world was my oyster and what fun I had. These days just waking up in the morning is all the adventure I can handle.

After much searching I thought that I had found a replacement for Cheryl but as usual the Gods conspired to thwart my best endeavors. I have, for quite some time, been on rather good terms with a very pretty little high school senior but unfortunately here in Kissbotty County the kids don’t know how to spell discretion let alone act with it. So it came to pass that with one hand firmly grasping my boys, the boss asked why I had told little Angela that I was taking her to Florida after graduation. Instantly realizing that a misunderstanding had occurred I replied “ No, my dewy cheeked English rose. I said that as soon as she was 18 I was going to tamper with her”. This was quickly followed by the old twist and pull maneuver that I have come to know and fear so well.

I’ll tell you what, who ever wrote “The truth shall set you free” needs to have his head examined

The Cofee Bitch vs. Mother Nature

I really should have learned, after all these years I should have know better. Every time I berate the Gods or Mother Nature they come back to bite my weary old ass. And so it came to pass that I found a dead deer in the front yard. It hadn’t been shot and it didn’t look like a car had hit it. It looked like Mother Nature had just made it wander into my garden and then made it drop dead. Normally VDOT will take care of this sort of problem but only on state maintained roads. Here in Kissbotty County I don’t think that we have state roads so when it comes to garbage removal, snow ploughing (to use the correct spelling) and indeed deer removal, one is pretty much on one’s own. So I had a word with my gentlemen hunters and the consensus of opinion was that I should tie a rope around it and drag it out of smell range into the woods. Well I have recently discovered two new facts. The first is that a dead deer is the biggest fly magnet in the world. The second is that when it comes to smell range, you can never haul a rotting deer too far from your house. With a nice southerly breeze (which blows about 100% of the time) it is now impossible to sit on the deck without retching. I would pull the damned thing further into the trees but as you can imagine I can’t get within 500 feet of it. My only hope is that the neighborhood dogs eat it and then go home to yak up a huge portion of rotten deer bowel onto the marital bed. Now you are probably thinking that this is a tad mean so let me explain. My neighbors (and this is probably a southern thing) seem to think that it is acceptable to let their hounds out in the morning to wander the ‘hood and let me assure you that it is not acceptable. I do not want Blossom wandering into my house like she owns the place. I do not want Spot drinking my solar powered water feature dry and I certainly don’t want Butch ripping open my garbage bags in search of a tasty morsel. Fortunately salvation may be at hand as Virginia has declared a bounty on coyote. So if I stalk out the carcass, give these interlopers both barrels of the trusty BSA 12 gauge and then spray paint them grey, Blossom and her little mates could earn me $25 a pop.

Actually I don’t know why I should be in such a curmudgeonly mood as my predictions in a previous blog turned out to be correct and our takings for last month exceeded my wettest of dreams. I decided to celebrate this wonderful news with a spot of copulation but unfortunately so did the Boss. Fortunately I was able to resolve this dichotomy with a couple of Mogadons and when she was safely tucked up in the arms of Morpheus, sneak out and meet Miss Rita Whiplash behind the potting shed. Even Rita, the shine addled old trollop that she is, complained about the God awful smell but at least I was able honestly reply, for the first time in our “relationship”, “Well it isn’t me my little dominatrix”.

Mercy Mistress Mercy.

Coffee and the Bobcat

Once again the elusive gobbler beat me, still at least I had some fun, Coffee Bitch and nature at one. There is definitely something to be said for sitting out in the woods first thing in the morning. I am camouflaged from head to toe, with camo gloves and a face veil. Comfortably ensconced under a tree I fancy that as long as I don’t move I am invisible and certainly a small herd of deer agreed as they ambled by with 10 feet of me. Then, just I was starting to relax and feeling one of those exotic eyelid movies coming on I spotted a Bobcat. It was huge, spitting and snarling and all teeth and claws. On reflection it might have been someone’s pet ginger tomcat but it was quite a size I can tell you. He was cautiously prowling through the woods, oblivious to my presence and getting closer all the time. When he got to within 2 feet I threw my hands up and made a dreadful hissing noise. The cat hardly expected the tree to come to life and leapt about 10 feet in the air. It spun around and started windmilling its legs so when it hit the ground it took off like, well a scolded cat I suppose. For my part I hardly expected it to vent its bladder in fear. Oh yes, as it span around in mid air it did a ghastly impression of a Catherine wheel of urea and lavishly soaked me. From bitter, bitter experience I can tell you that the one thing worse than the smell of tomcat urine is the smell of tomcat urine drying in the morning sun. When we all hooked up at the end of another turkey free day the very first thing my hunting chums said was “What is that awful smell?” When I told the story they laughed until they were sick, the heartless bastards. I would like to be able to tell you that I got my revenge as they had to hold their heads out of the window on the drive home. Sadly we were using my truck so now the new car smell has been replaced with the used public bathroom smell.

I don’t mind Mother Nature taking the piss I just wish that she wouldn’t keep the catheter in the icebox.

Fortunately for tomcats everywhere I won’t be hunting next week, as I am off to see FOTL1 and FOTL2 graduate college. FOTL1 has completed her Master’s Degree with a 4.0 GPA and has been accepted into the premiere college for her discipline to study for her doctorate. She has also been given a teaching position so I suppose I will have to start calling her Professor FOTL1. FOTL2 has completed her Batchelors Degree with honors and has been accepted into her chosen college as a graduate student working towards her Masters Degree. As a result of some very astute planning by myself, they both graduate from the same college at the same time so I will not have to waste two weekends pretending to be proud of the little helions.

Now to let you into a little secret. I left school at 16. I only mention this in the hope that you will join me in shoving Darwin’s On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life. (to give it, its full title) up our collective bottys.

All together now, one, two, three, PUSH

Coffee and the Party

As I have mentioned before Smalltown is the buckle on the Bible belt. Churches outnumber topless bars by 1000 to 1 and ladies of virtue outnumber ladies of the night by the same ratio. I had no idea how serious things were until I went to the post office to buy some stamps.
"What denomination?" asked the clerk."Oh, good heavens! Have we come to this?" I replied.
"Well, give me 30 Catholic ones, 10 Baptist ones, 20 Lutheran, and 40 Presbyterian."

As you can imagine being a Coffee House we get through a tremendous amount of milk every week. Lately I have noticed the boss staring wistfully at the milk refrigerator and eventually she confessed that she had a secret fantasy to bathe in milk. Ever one to help out I told her that I could do that and would she like it pasteurized. She replied that she would be happy if it came up to her chest.

Well it is Friday and that has to be the best. My gentleman hunters have been in to make the arrangements for tomorrow and once again we shall be pitting our wits against the turkey. Fortunately my main man has twisted his knee. I say fortunately as this means that he doesn’t feel up to climbing the north face of Everest tomorrow, instead we will be hunting on level ground. I tell you, these good ol boys climb like freakin mountain goats and I can also tell you that a shotgun that weighs 10lbs at ground level feels like 200lbs after you have climbed what feels like 2000 feet. So if on Monday you see a blog that starts “Mortals, behold the mighty hunter” you will know that I beat the gobbler. Watch this space.

One more working day until the end of the month and we have not only beaten our previous best but we have shattered the record. Normally I would celebrate with a case of Grolsch and a big ol’ pull of white lightening but I have to be up at 5:00 again tomorrow morning, so we decided to have a party behind the Coffee House for our regulars. Most Smalltownians are pretty reticent when it comes to putting out and we were concerned that the party might not even get off the ground. Fortunately my little nursey girlfriends from the Smalltown hospital came up with a perfect solution. I am sure that you will have heard of Long Island Iced Tea, well with the aid of my little Florence Nightingales we made a big batch of Smalltown Iced Tea. I provided the ice and the tea and they provided the lysergic acid diethylamide and the Psilocybin mushrooms. I tell you this was the party of the year, I am so glad we got a video as I am sure you will agree that some of these Smalltown ladies are pretty damned hot. Of course you have to remember that almost all of them carry a pocket bible and that kinda takes the edge off. I say almost all as DQ was in this week relating a tale of unbounded altruism and at the end I said “Jeez woman you really are a saint” to which she recoiled in horror and said “I ain’t no saint CB”. One sinner out of hundreds, not a great percentage, still hope springs eternal.

OK enjoy the party and I will see you next week when hopefully I will be covering the keyboard with turkey parts

Coffee and the Accident

My Jim Beam induced moment of introspection was rudely curtailed by someone barging into the Coffee House and frantically asking me to call 911 as his wife had fallen over and maybe broken her leg. Suspecting, as one does, the old slip and fall scam I shuffled off to the office to have a leisurely read of our insurance policy after all one cannot be too careful in these matters. As a slight aside I once had a car radio stolen and when I made the insurance claim the premium taker asked me what model the radio was. Of course I replied that I didn’t have a clue. The insurance tosser then informed me that the make of radio would determine what size the check would be. Ah right replied I, I do believe it was a Rolex. Insurance boy replies "Well CB I don’t think that Rolex make radios". Sure they do I retort, It was a clock radio.

So I wandered outside to find the poor lady lying on the sidewalk with a clearly staved in patella (knee cap to you) and a husband flapping around like a headless chicken. As usual there wasn’t much of interest going on in the shop so I thought I might hang around for a while and see what happens. After a while the adrenaline starts to wear off (hers, not mine) and the pain kicks in. I decide to do the decent thing and get her some iced water and an ice pack. She accepts my gifts but studiously ignores the tip jar that I left clearly in sight. After some 15 minutes her moaning and wailing starts to get on my nerves so I offer to walk across the road to the Smalltown hospital. Back in the jolly old UK if you wandered into the ER and told them that someone had fallen over outside, Matron would dispatch a couple of skimpily dressed nursey types and a gurney and everything would be taken care of. Sadly it would appear that in Smalltown (and probably everywhere else in the US) there is no room for initiative in medical care and in consequence much of the ER just stared blankly at me, as if I had wandered in and asked for a Tabasco enema. Of course we know that we can lay the blame firmly at the doorstep of our litigious society and it doesn’t take a huge stretch of the imagination to picture Messers Hemmer, Rhoyd, Piles, Sue, Grabbitt and Runne all following the gurney handing out business cards and waiting for a wheel to fall off. The outcome was that the best that the ER could do was to let me use the phone to call emergency services again. The charming dispatcher told me that they had got my call and the ambulance was currently on its way from Brokeback Mountain and would be there within 10 minutes. And here is the point of this blog. Did you notice the definite article? THE ambulance? In the whole of Kissbotty County there is one ambulance? Yet I have seen lots of different ambulances running around but I guess they are reserved for special customers who perhaps have a secret number to call. I might just try dialing 912 to see what happens.

Now one might like to suggest that the Kissbotty Emergency people should save their money and buy another ambulance so that anyone who falls over and breaks a leg doesn’t have to wait 20 minutes for a 100 foot ride to the Smalltown ER. However the Public Safety people are addicted to the Boss’s chicken sandwiches and every month they have a big meeting for which they order 22 Chicken on whole wheat. So if the choice is between spending money on our sandwiches or buying a new ambulance might I respectfully suggest that you tread carefully?

Note to the legal profession in Smalltown. The broken leg woman obviously didn’t make it, so there might be a juicy negligence claim in the making. I know she died because she never came back into the shop to pay for the ice water, ice pack and the jolly Coffee Bitch conversation.

People can be so selfish at times.

Coffee and Hunting

Yes indeedy I actually went huntin’ with my buddies and here is how it went down

CB’s diary

Got up at 5:15, it is dark and cold
Drove miles to the middle of nowhere
Climbed the tallest mountain in Virginia
Nearing the top, heard turkey gobble
Answered with turkey caller using last remaining joule of energy
Hear faint gobble
Hang around for 5 hours
Go home, no breakfast


Turkey’s diary

Wake up at sunrise
Flutter out of tree
Have sex with my hens
Make weird gobble noise to let the ladies know who’s their Daddy
Hear “hunters” dicking around with Walmart turkey call
Move ladies to next county, gobbling as we leave
Breakfast on bugs, berries and nuts.
Plans for tomorrow? Probably more sex and food, what a life.

Actually it turned out to be somewhat addictive and although I can’t believe it myself I am booked to do it all again next Saturday. We pitted our wits against a turkey and the turkey won. I blame it all on television myself.

The Bitch doesn't go hunting

In order to tell this little tale I need to set a scene and explain some cultural differences so bear with me here.

In England we have very few open spaces and no guns so hunting is pretty much a non-existent sport. In addition the champagne socialists have banned fox hunting on the basis that the fox did not get a vote as to whether or not he should be torn apart alive by a pack of dogs. England has neither moose, nor elk nor bears, so all in all hunting is restricted to small birds. If you are fortunate enough to be the friend of a multimillionaire (or indeed a multimillionaire yourself) you might get the opportunity to walk a 1000-acre grouse moor, and here is how your weekend might go.

Friday night, arrive at stately home for a nice leisurely dinner and cocktails. Saturday morning, arise at 9:00 for a spot of breakfast. Actually the full English is a rare treat. Eggs, sausage, bacon, kidneys, black pudding, kedgeree, kippers and so on and on and on. Incidentally for you culture vultures, breakfast is the only meal where the English gentleman serves himself, the butler just stands there, strange but true. Then at around 11.00 everyone piles off to the moor to bag a few grouse, scared up by the beaters. Then a spot of luncheon and we are done.

So back to the Smalltown Coffee House. It turns out that this is the start of Spring gobbler season (turkey to you) and my gentlemen hunters have invited me join them. We are making the arrangements over a coffee and things start to head south faster than Britney’s career. It seems that I have to be sitting under a tree before the sun comes up. Who would have guessed that turkeys spend the night in trees and you have to blow their heads off just as they are getting out of bed. There was to be no cocktails, no black pudding and worst of all no lying in bed until 9:00, in fact the final knife to my heart was that they arranged to collect me at 5:30 Saturday morning. I did, however, have one tiny out. Apparently the boys (who let me tell you are no spring chickens) do not go out in the rain so my instructions were to look out of the window at 5.15 and if it was raining, assume that they would not show. So it came to pass that with trembling fingers I pulled back the drapes to discover that God had answered my prayers and it was indeed hammering down. With a scream of joy I leapt back into the pit, crossed no man’s land and entered enemy territory. Of course I was rebuffed with the usual “Get away from me” but hey, at least I wasn’t hunting.

On reflection perhaps I could have removed my camo and boots before trying it on with the boss but when in Kissbotty……..

Coffee and Sickness

Bonjour, ma petit choux. I am back. I haven’t blogged forever as we got incredibly busy for the longest time and to be quite frank after a hard day of overcharging and shortchanging I never quite fancied writing about it. Then something happened that has not happened for 10 years, I got sick. I got so sick we actually had to shut down. Now I wasn’t exactly at death’s door, but I was sick enough to watch daytime television so it was almost like dying. In a coma like trance I watched a program where obese women with pendulous breasts and no bras, rush to the front of the audience, guess the price of a piece of trailer trash furniture and win a car. It was a triumph of mindless nonsense and is possibly the only program so simple that all the rules are contained in the title. It is called the “Price is Right” and America, I weep for you.

I was also bemused by the advertising, which let me tell you, outnumbered the programming by two to one. Here is a thought, if you are advertising payday loans or title loans or any of those other legal loan shark deals, should you not advertise to working people? You see advertising loans to people who are watching daytime television seems to me to be a recipe for not getting a loan repaid, unless the master plan is not to get repaid but to get your hands on the title to the family car. Still worse than this are the adverts that scream at me. “PAY ATTENTION MORON, PUT KAABOOM DOWN YOUR TOILET AND NEVER CLEAN IT AGAIN, DO IT NOW MORON”. Jesus if I had the strength to get my Magnum 500 I would have shown that bearded twat Billy Mays a thing or two.
Well if daytime TV is a plot to get the malingerers back to work, it worked on my sick ass. I tell you people I would rather be circumcised by a meth addict coming down from a five day high, whilst suffering from a grand mal seizure and wielding a rusty grapefruit knife than watch anymore daytime TV.

Coffee and Angels

We have a customer who is something to do with Bigtown’s Symphony Orchestra. Last year she gave us tickets to the Christmas Pops thingy and recently she gave us tickets to see the Orchestra and Aaron Spelling. I know it sounds a strange combination and indeed it turned out to be a night of disappointments, which seems to be a theme in my life lately.

The festivities started off quite well with the Liberty Bell March by Souza. Sadly for Souza (like he gives a rat’s) no one can listen to this without thinking of Monty Python, which incidentally is pronounced Pie-thun. I only mention this as inevitably when people discover I am English they tell me how much they like Monty Python. Dude, that was 40 years ago, move on, try watching a Bottom DVD at least that is only 20 years old. So at the end of the march the conductor says “And now for something completely different”. How the Boss and I howled. (If two people laugh in the Bigtown auditorium, does it make any sound?). Then he spoiled it all by talking about Tin Pan Alley music, which was apparently a flash in the pan at the outbreak of World War I in 1917. WTF! What are you teaching your kids out here? Where were you in 1914? This is just as bad as that nonsense you people spout about saving my ass in 1943. (BTW you are wrong on that as well, I wasn’t even an ovum in 1943). WWII started in 1939 and we broke the Germans backs in time for you to saunter over and steal all the glory. Oh well let’s not dwell on old history.

So the second half arrived and I eagerly awaited Aaron. I was particularly keen to meet Bosely and Charlie’s Angels as I needed to thank Farrah Fawcett for a very happy experience that involved the 14-year-old Coffee Bitch and that poster. You have no idea how crushed I was to discover that this was not a night to be spent with my lovely angels but instead some huge black guy warbling on about how “I don’t know much, but I know I love yoooooooouuu, and that may be all I need to know”. What a rip.

I tell you people, it is a sad Friday night when the only bulge in the Bitch’s pants is a S&W Air Lite PD351

Coffee and Divorce

So Bertie Grabbit (Sue, Grabbit and Runne LLP) and Percy Piles (Hemmer, Rhoyd and Piles LLP) were in the shop yesterday, discussing a case in which they represent, respectively, the plaintiff and the defendant. It didn’t sound too interesting so whilst they were both distracted I used the opportunity to short change them both. Then Bertie started talking about another case in which he represents Mrs Darleen Scumbag who wants a divorce from Donnie Scumbag. Darleen has a huge scar on her left cheek where Donnie shot her in the face. Apparently the round went into her cheek and exited the back of her neck miraculously missing the carotid artery, jugular vein, vagus nerve and all of that stuff inside the spinal column that allow Darleen to walk and talk and yes indeed breathe. Now Bertie (and I swear to God this is the absolute truth) says that he thinks this will be suitable grounds for divorce, to which Darleen demurs on the basis that after the shooting she went back to Donnie.

I have no interest at all in the marital status of Donnie and Darleen but this does raise the question, what did Donnie do to Darleen that is worse than shooting her in the face, to prompt the divorce?

Note to self, never marry a Kissbotty County woman. Apparently they are harder to get rid of than a dose of Iranian crabs.

Coffee and the Bard

OK so Shakespeare may not have actually said “What a tangled web…” after all.

See here

Well he should have said it. Still being at the top of the list of non-Shakespeare quotes is almost like he said it don’t you think?

In spiteful retaliation at Shakespeare geeks of the world here is a joke that only the Brits should get..

WS walks into a pub and the landlord looks up and says “Get out, you’re Bard”

Now I am off to clean the crapper, which just goes to prove that one day you are the windshield and the next you're the bug, as WS never said.

TCB

Coffee and Pain

So I was whining on to one of my customers about the appalling state of my front garden. It’s not exactly my fault as the previous owner had done pretty much squat in the grass department. In reply, and possibly to stop me becoming seriously boring, my man gave me a whole load of advice on lawn maintenance and then told me that I needed a four wheel drive tractor with a grader attachment and a heavyweight lawn rake. I stated the obvious that I didn’t exactly have all of this industrial equipment and without a pause he said, “Well I do and you can borrow it”. So this weekend I shall be King of the Hill as I trundle around on a big ol’ tractor. Today I told this story to two of my neighbors who are also customers and they both said that they also had the same equipment and if only I had said they would have willingly let me borrow it. That, my friends, is what life in the south is all about.

Kissbotty Radio (home to all the hits) is once again plumbing the depths of professionalism. Due to someone forgetting to put a quarter in the electric meter they went of the air for about an hour or so. When Dick ‘n’ Ed (the impossibly perky little gay bar loiterers that they are) realized what was happening, or not happening in this case, they put a Police single on, hit the repeat button and went off for a spot of mutual appreciation. For many months these two walking perfume shops have been crowing about the fact that they also broadcast on the web (for those fortunate enough not to be able to receive a radio signal). Of course it goes without saying that they forgot that the web listener would be hearing Rox-aaaaaaane, you don’t have to put on the red light, 237 times in a row. Now the listener was so concerned that Dick and/or Ed had died at the wheel that the emergency services were called. That, my friends, is what life in the south is all about.

Actually I shouldn’t rag on at Kissbotty Radio, they do their best and at least it isn’t 24 hours of hard-core country. The problem is that I have had some bad news and to be quite frank I am feeling more that a touch testy. My little friend Cheryl has announced that she is to pack her bag, leave Smalltown and head for L.A. in search of a new life. She has no job, no place to live and is just going to wing it. This paragraph is not going to make any sense unless you read about Cheryl first, so if you have not already done so, please click here and the rest of us will wait until you catch up. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Great welcome back, now you know why I am so grumpy. I suppose it was good of her to give me some notice so that I can gradually wean her off the gamma hydroxybutyric acid, God knows I don’t need her getting any repressed memory flashbacks as I think in all fairness only one of us had a good time. Anyway it looks like I am going to have to find a replacement for Cheryl and my first thoughts were perhaps one of my PHAT mothers might do. Fortunately I discovered in the nick of time that one of them is the sister in law of the police chief. Jesus, talk about a narrow escape. Perhaps I will just have to stop putting the sensual in non-consensual. As William Shakespeare once said “What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive” or did he say “Incey Wincey spider”. I just don’t know any more.

Cheryl’s impending departure has made me realize that I too should make so life style changes. I have therefore decided to stop pretending to be a masochist. You see it’s true I do get no kick from sham pain.