The Bitch and the ER

One of the occupational hazards of working in a Coffee House is the occasional scald and burn. The Boss claims that OSHA only applies to paid staff and not tip Bitches so I am pretty much on my own here. Sadly one of my more creative experiments with the steam wand went horribly south this morning and I realized that I was going to need something more than the Boss going “There, there” and kissing it better.

Not wanting to sit around in the Smalltown ER for 4 hours, I put on my Walmarts camo (see previous blog) and stuck a patch that I downloaded off the Internet onto the front of my shirt.When I walked into the E.R., I noticed that 90% of the people suddenly got up and left. I guess they decided that they weren't that sick after all.

Below is the patch. Feel free to use it the next time you need to go to the E. R.

In sickness and in health
TCB

The Bitch goes Huntin'

One of our more senior clients is a keen hunter so he has just spent the last three months out in the woods. He returned with stash of venison cuts for me and an invitation to go hunting with him. I should say here that there are two types of hunter in southern Virginia. There is the redneck ,barely legal, Neanderthal type who likes to shoot from his 1973 F150 and eats roadkill pie. Then there is the ethical hunter who asks permission to hunt on private land, eats what he kills and donates the rest to Hunters for the Hungry (and me). Needless to say my man falls into the latter group and a nicer chap you could not want to meet.

As you will know, faithful reader, I am a keen, and not too shabby skeet shooter but I have always demurred at the thought of killing something. Well I guess it was time to shake of my soft Northern pansy ways so I gleefully accepted. Apparently all I needed was a camouflage suit, which is how I found myself in the Walmarts Sunday morning. The Walmarts had it all and within minutes I had the suit, shirt, gloves, veil, cap and was set to go. By now you are probably thinking, dumb immigrant doesn’t realize that hunting season is over, well think again. You see here in Smalltown, camo (as we hunters call it) is not just practical, it is also a fashion statement. Even though I say so myself, my fellow Smalltownians and I look pretty fetching in green. This kit is guaranteed to improve both the quantity and the quality of my love life. Praise Jesus for inventing redneck wimmin.

Actually this stuff may have to go back. Fancying a bit of a rest I slipped on the kit and had a little lie down on the sofa. Well I tell you people within seconds the Boss had spotted me and given me some chores.

So much for camouflage.

Coffee and more Religion

I am getting quite an education these days. Most mornings Bertie Grabbitt (Sue, Grabbitt and Runne LLP) grabs a coffee and lingers for a discussion during which we set the world to rights. Our politics are somewhat different which can make for a lively debate and I have recently discovered that I can make a vein pop up on his forehead by using three simple words. “President Hillary Clinton”. I think that we can all agree here that the American people will never be as progressive as to elect a woman, black or Jew so I don’t know why he is getting upset, still it is a neat party trick. It was in the back of my mind that JFK was the last and only catholic President. Apparently the American people have an aversion to electing Presidents that might take their orders from Rome (and you people founded American to escape religious persecution?). Anyway yesterday’s debate was founded on the expression “cafeteria Catholic”. Apparently JFK was one and for the benefit of those of you who are as religiously ignorant as I, a cafeteria Catholic is a Catholic who picks and chooses the dogma that he likes and disregards the rest.

Today’s discussion involved the infallibility of the Pope. Now I had always assumed that whatever the Bishop of Rome said was irrefutable but according to Bertie I am wrong (I know it’s hard to believe). Apparently statements by a pope that exercise papal infallibility are referred to as solemn papal definitions or ex cathedra teachings. These should not be confused with teachings that are infallible because of a solemn definition by an ecumenical council, or with teachings that are infallible in virtue of being taught by the ordinary and universal magisterium.
According to the teaching of the First Vatican Council and Catholic tradition, the conditions required for ex cathedra teaching are as follows:

1. "the Roman Pontiff"
2. "speaks ex cathedra" ("that is, when in the discharge of his office as shepherd and teacher of all Christians, and by virtue of his supreme apostolic authority….")
3. "he defines"
4. "that a doctrine concerning faith or morals"
5. "must be held by the whole Church"

Well that was the gist of what Bertie said and I think that you will agree it is all powerful stuff. I would probably be more interested in religion if it wasn’t for the the certain knowledge that my habit of roofing Cheryl’s lattes have condemned me to an eternity of fellating Satan’s toes.

Talking of which (and once again I quote Bertie) we have a serious issues with the obituary columns in the Bigtown Gazette. I am a keen reader of the obit column as most days it is the only confirmation that I still have a life. Apparently when people write “Gone to meet our Heavenly Father” or similar, they are sinning. According to Rome (and who am I to argue?) it is a sin to presume that you, or anyone else, will go to heaven. All of this leads me to the point of today’s message.

It was late at night as the Pope, who had departed this world, was approaching the gates of heaven. There was no one around, but there was a small shack just prior to the gates with a light on. The Pope stepped into the shack and startled a young man half asleep sitting at a small grey desk."Excuse me" said the Pope, "but I'm supposed to check in here with St. Peter, but there is no one at the gate." "Yea, Yea" said the young man, "Where are your papers?""I don't have any papers, " said the Pope."Well it's too late to check in tonight anyhow." said the young man, "Just go around to the back of the building, find a rack and dump your gear in a locker. St. Peter will be here in the morning and you can check in then."The Pope grabs his stuff and walks around the building only to find a WWII style open bay barracks. The racks are stacked three high and the only open one is all the way at the end of the building, and its on top. He drags his stuff to the end of the building, but there is no locker for him. He takes a deep breath, thinks about it for a minute and decides this is just one final test. He crawls up into the rack and falls asleep.Suddenly he is awakened by a loud commotion outside the barracks. As he walks outside he sees a huge crowd of angels cheering and clapping as a gold convertible limousine approaches. As it draws nearer, the Pope sees a guy in a suit with a brief case and a beautiful angel on each arm, a beer in his hand and he is smoking one of the biggest cigars the Pope has ever seen. The Pope turns to the young man who checked him in and asks, "Who is that guy?" "Well that’s Bertie Grabbitt," the young man replies.The Pope says, "I don't get it. I worked hard all of my life to do God's work on earth. As a young man I studied hard at the seminary, as a priest I labored hard to tend my flock and provide guidance when they strayed. I struggled as a bishop to serve the church and as Pope; I was able to attract more followers of the faith. Yet, when I reach heaven, St. Peter isn't here to greet me. I have to carry my own bags. I'm stuck in the top rack of an open bay barracks and I don't even have a locker for my bags!"The young man looks at the Pope and says. "Look, we get a Pope every 20-30 years, but Bertie is the only lawyer who has ever made it!"

Coffee and the Bathroom

One of the things that I was dreading when we opened up the shop was bathroom duty. The thought of cleaning the dumper was almost more than I could bear. As it happens Smalltownians have been remarkably sanitary in their toiletries and with the exception of one or two incidents (which may or may not, have been authored by myself, I admit nothing) using the restroom has been like a breath of fresh air. Anyway the long and the short of it is that Smalltownians spend a remarkably short time in the latrine and this may due to the fact that I installed a fake CCTV camera above the door.
The only reason I mention this is that FOTL2 received an email today and it made me think how lucky I am in the cludgey department. First allow me to set the scene for you. FOTL2 is a residential assistant at Collegetown. She looks after a floor of the dorm and resolves any issues that might occur. The rooms are double occupancy and a bathroom links two rooms. So you can see that one has a roommate and two suite mates, are you still with me? Good, here is the email.

Dear xxxxxxx
I really don’t want to cause any trouble but I have really had it with my two suite mates. Every Friday they go out and get hammered, returning in the early hours of Saturday morning and I am woken by the sound of them heaving up. This unfortunately is not the real problem you see every Saturday morning I get up to find the whole of the toilet area (not just the toilet) covered in vomit and feces. Please can you do something to help. I have to go now as I need to pee and it is a long walk to the communal bathroom.
Thanks
Christi

Isn’t that a charming tale? Remember that the vomiters / faecers are freshmen, i.e. way below the legal drinking age and Collegetown has a pretty draconian policy regarding this sort of nonsense. These girls could be on the next bus home if they get reported. I asked FOTL2 how she was going to handle this and she told me that it was hard to have any sympathy as last month the suitemates had complained about Christi. Apparently Christi used to have a pet hamster (a breach of college rules) and when she cleaned out its cage she would deposit the hamster dump in the washbasin. This all begs the question. Mothers what are you teaching your daughters?

I was reading the Bigtown Gazette this morning and the lead story in the Virginia section involves Smallscrote County. It turns out that Smallscrote was the last county in Virginia to get a public library. Amazingly it was not until 2004 that the library opened and more amazingly it only happened, in the main, due to the fund raising activities of the Girl Guides. Sadly less than 3 years later the library is to close. I guess this just proves that you can lead a redneck to the library but you can’t make him read. This reminds me of the old joke that the Smalltown library burned down and both books were destroyed. The real tragedy was that one of them hadn’t even been colored in yet. (This is actually mean and unworthy. Here in Smalltown we are blessed with a fine library staffed with dedicated librarians. Remember folks the moral of the tale is use it or lose it).

On a happier note I am pleased to report that the tip situation has vastly improved since my earlier blog, well done to all concerned. Thanks to your kind cooperation tonight I shall slip into arms of Bacchus on a river of Grolsch instead of the usual Bud Lite. In view of your integrity I have reset the meals tax on the register from 14% to the more appropriate (and legal) 4%. I will of course continue to keep an eye on the old pickle jar so dig deep people.

Well it is Friday and I am done for the week and to be frank it has all been a tad exhausting. I have spent the last five days staying on the right side of the boss and let me tell you people that wasn’t an easy task. Still as a result of my pathetic ingratiation I think she is up for it tonight. If you have been paying attention you will know that I spent way too long in El Paso, where I learned to make love rodeo style. Sadly the boss isn’t too keen on having that rope tied around her waist and she is even less keen when I spur her out of the chute. Of late there has been some discussion as to whether I am actually staying mounted for the full eight seconds but, hey, it is tough to perform with a clown in a barrel in the corner of the bedroom.

Riding into town
TCB

The Bitch's Happy Day

A really gorgeous ex-girlfriend of mine called the other day. We lost track of time, chatting about the wild nights we used to enjoy together, she really was exceptionally skilled at the marital arts. I couldn't believe it when she asked if I'd like to meet up and maybe rekindle a little of that magic. "Wow!" I said "I don't know if I could keep pace with you now! I'm a bit older than when you last saw me!" She giggled and said she was sure I'd rise to the challenge! "Yeah," I said, just so long as you don't mind a man with a waistband that's a few inches wider these days!" She laughed and told me to stop being so silly! She teased me, saying she thought that tubby men were cute! "Anyway", she said, "I've put on a couple of pounds myself!"

So I hung up.

This gave me a little more time to read the Bigtown Gazette when my eye was caught by a report stating that a recent study had found that 35% of men have been injured while undoing a woman's bra. That's correct undoing bras. Whilst unfastening a woman's fun bag holder, men have received strained tendons, scratches, and other similar injuries.

Actually, I can vouch for that. I got injured today while trying to undo a bra. When I undid the woman in front of me in the checkout line at the Walmarts, she turned around and hit me in the face with a can of peas.

I realize that I have been a bit rash in castigating the complete lack of professionalism from the Smalltown IP Company. Today a lady called to see if we had Internet. I replied that we did and within 5 minutes she was here with her family. It seems that Smalltown IP Co. had once again turned off most of uptown Smalltown without any warning. She is a realtor working from home and was screwed without a service. The end result was that they dropped $25 for lunch and we won a new customer. In fact they enjoyed the boss’s quality cooking so much they tipped me out (very well) and promised to be back.

Keep up the good work Smalltown IP Co.

Coffee, Sugar and Tips

As you are well aware I am the most forgiving and tolerant of Coffee Bitches however today I need to talk to you about some unacceptable behavior that is becoming increasingly more prevalent. I am referring to those little packets of sugar and assorted sweeteners that are on the table. It needs to be clearly understood that these are for show purposes only. They give the outward appearance that I care when in reality I do not. There are many issues involved here; the first of course being the expense, sugar does not grow on trees you know. Secondly there is the issue of the little wrappers. You seem to be under the impression that it is acceptable to leave your detritus lying on the table for me to clear up, well it isn’t. For a start I hate clearing up after you and inevitably just as I get to the trash bin the little wrappers fly off the plate onto the floor, which involves me in yet more bending and scraping. Finally there seems to be a certain element suffering from Parkinson’s or something similar. I am forever finding white powder sprinkled liberally over the table. Apart from making me clean up after you (which is totally unacceptable) you are making my Coffee House look like Paula Abdul’s bathroom. So take the advice of the sweetener Nazis in California and stop using these chemicals, and abusing my hospitality. Similarly I have noticed that some of you seem to think it is acceptable to remove the straw from its wrapper and then tear the wrapper into little pieces or screw it up into shapes. This strikes me as some sort of nervous affliction probably caused by stress. People who suffer from stress are going to have a stroke and I don't want any of that nonsense in the shop. Smalltown Hospital is just down the road and they have a fine ER so go and bother them.Thank you.

Whilst I have your attention I have noticed a downward trend in my tips. I cannot imagine why this should be but nevertheless I need that money so stop being so cheap. There are several ways to show your appreciation of my stunning wit and gay banter. In reverse order of preference they are;

1. Leave money on the table. The disadvantage of this method is that I cannot see how generous you have been. I will therefore spend several minutes berating your cheapness behind your back, until I have bussed your table. It also involves me in the walk to the tip jar.
2. Press the dead presidents into my hand. The advantage here is that I can instantly see how generous you have been and therefore decide if I should continue to acknowledge your existence. The disadvantage is that we might make skin-to-skin contact and as you are well aware I have no desire to touch your faeces fingers.
3. Place money in the tip jar that is conveniently situated by the register. This should be accompanied by a loud “Do the tips go in here” and you should also hold the money high in the air first so I can once again gauge your appreciation of your host. Only under the most unusual of circumstances to I expect to hear the clatter of coins hitting the bottom of the jar.

Failure on your part to follow these simple and unwarrantedly generous rules will result in more draconian measures. No one wants to go back to the days of overcharging and shortchanging, do we? The ball is firmly in your court.

Have a nice day.
TCB

Coffee and the law (part IV)

A smartly dressed middle-aged lady came into the shop this morning. She had that relieved happy look of someone who has just got the all clear from the STD clinic. In conversation she lets me know that she has just been found not guilty on a reckless driving charge. Ever eager to engage my customers in friendly banter (aka sticking my nose in other people’s business) I enquire if she had been driving at more than 20 mph over the limit. No she replies, I skidded on some gravel and rolled my vehicle into a ditch. Well I think that you will agree that doesn’t sound reckless and indeed she had just totaled her car so it all sounds somewhat vindictive to me. It transpires that here in Kissbotty (and maybe where you live as well), if you do over a certain amount of damage it is regarded as reckless, regardless of the circumstances. Now the officer (and let me go on record here as a staunch supporter of the thin blue line) told her that the Judge would probably throw the case out, nevertheless she endured 30 days of worry. As it happened, 30 days of needless worry as Judge Mental did indeed throw it out. Doesn’t this strike you as a monumental waste of my tax dollars (actually that is an exaggeration as the Boss does not pay me enough to warrant taxes, but you get the point). And here is another point. You rise to the top of the legal profession and after many years of selfless service, get called to the bar (as we say in England). Now you are listening to this nonsense. I can’t help but to wonder how Judges keep their sanity.

On second thoughts this gives me an idea. If all motoring offenses, regardless of how trivial, went to court then a fair percentage are bound to end up in the Coffee House. Maybe I could sponsor the traffic cops. Perhaps a small ad on the ticket itself.

“When in Court visit the Smalltown Coffee House.

We put the fine in caffeine”.

OK I am off to change the speed sign outside the police station to 100 mph.

Cha ching

TCB

Coffee and Generosity

Once again I find myself bored witless and desperate for any sort of mental distraction when the cell phone rings;

"Honey, it's me. Are you at the Coffee House?"
"Of course where else ."
"Great! I am at the mall at Bigtown. I just saw a beautiful winter coat. It's absolutely gorgeous!! Can I buy it?"
"What's the price?"
"Only $499."
"Well, OK, go ahead and get it, if you like it that much..."
"Ahhh, and I also stopped by the jewelry store, remember that eternity ring that I liked? Well it has been reduced, do you think that I could get it as well?”
"What price did he give you?"
"Only $2,999...""OK, but for that price I want it with the three year warranty."
"Great! But before we hang up, something else..."
"What?"
"It might look like a lot, but I was reconciling your bank account and...I stopped by the Ford dealership this morning and saw 2007 Mustang that we had looked at last year. It's on sale!! Remember? The one with a 6 disc CD and the metallic baby blue paint job"
"How much are they asking?"
"Only $23,900 - a great price...and I see that you have that much in the bank to cover..."
"Well, then go ahead and buy it, but offer $22,900. OK?"
"OK, sweetie...Thanks! I'll see you later!! I love you!!!"
"Bye...I do too..."

I hang up, close the phone's flap, and call across the shop “Did anyone leave a cell phone by the cash register?"

I truly am the Coffee Bitch from Hell.

TCB

Coffee and the Donkey

Why I love the South (part II)

When we moved to Smalltown we ended up in the country with a little land. We thought it would be kind of fun to get a donkey for the paddock so we bought one from an old local farmer for $100.00. The farmer agreed to deliver the donkey the next day. The next day, he drove up and said, "Sorry Bitch, but I have some bad news. The donkey died." I replied, "Well then, just give me my money back." The farmer said, "Can't do that. I went and spent it already." (These people can be very careful with their money). So I replied, "Okay then, just unload the dead donkey."

The farmer asked, "What ya gonna do with him"? to which I replied, "I'm going to raffle him off." "You can't raffle off a dead donkey!" the farmer says. "Sure I can. Watch me. I just won't tell anybody he's dead." I said with a smile.

A month later the farmer came into the Coffee House and asked, "What happened with that dead donkey"? "I raffled him off. I sold 500 tickets at two dollars a piece and made a profit of $898.00." "Didn't anyone complain"? the farmer asked.

"Just the guy who won. So I gave him his two dollars back."

Coffee Bitch 1 : RoW 0

Coffee and the South

Why I love the South (part I)

Many years ago when I was in Fairfax County I was running a small medical company (You should already know this is you have been paying attention). One day I discovered that one of my competitors was engaged in what I considered deceptive business practices. (For the technically curious, they had inserted my company’s name into their website meta tags in an attempt to trick search engines to divert searches to their site; how dull was that?) So mounting my high horse I made appointment with Lily Cheatum at Dewey, Cheatum & Howe. Of course the first thing that came out of her mouth was that this was a cast iron case that we could not lose. Cutting a long and excruciatingly tedious story short we racked up the hours and then called in the expert opinion of an Internet attorney. At the end of all this nonsense we were assured that we would win the case however (and here comes the kicker) the judge would probably award us minimal damages. So my choices were to hand over a retainer of $75,000 to proceed to court (and probably be awarded squat) or to bail now. Naturally I bailed. You can imagine how thrilled I was, the following week, to receive an invoice for “professional” services of just under $5,000. Just to twist the knife I also received an invoice from the Internet expert of $1100. (I spent 30 minutes in his company, although his invoice reflected 2 hours of perusing the offending website).

Now fast forward a few years and we are in Kissbotty County. Once again I find myself in a position of needing professional advice. Enter stage left, Bertie Grabbitt (Sue, Grabbitt and Runne LLP). Over a coffee Bertie listens to my story and advises that I should forget all about it. To proceed will be a highway to heartache and unbearable expense. Total fee, one free lunch (which incidentally I had to force him to accept).

And there you have it in a nutshell folks, the North is populated by money-grubbing charlatans, the South is full of decent honest folks.

Save your Confederate dollars boys, we’re gonna rise again.

TCB

P.S. John Lennon once said, “Give peace a chance”. However he also said “Coo coo ca chew, I am the Eggman, I am the Walrus” so I really don’t know what to believe. Similarly Bertie is a native New Yorker. I am so confused.

Coffee and Lonely Hearts

Sunday morning has to be the best time of the week. Good old English fried breakfast followed by a wallow in the Sunday Bigtown Gazette and the New York Times all accompanied by a mug of coffee and the happy sounds of the Boss washing and ironing. Ah, I could watch women work all day. By the way, hats off to you colonials, getting the New York Sundays to my Smalltown door is a remarkable feat of distribution. So I was on page 327 of section D (damn, they must have cut down a whole Sequoia just to make my one issue) when my eye was caught by a story involving a woman suing a matchmaking service for not finding her a love interest. The story per say was not that interesting but what was fascinating was that the matchmaker was charging up to $200,000 for a match. Wondering what I might get for my $200,000 I visited her website, boy was I in for a disappointment. I have no idea what she spends her money on but it clearly isn’t her website. This has to be one of the worst sites I have ever seen. It is riddled with spelling errors, nasty grammar and just plain nonsense. I particularly like the line that says “don’t send me flowers or chocolates but a bonus check is always appreciated. Words cannot describe the contrast between the fees charged and the crappiness of the website so why don’t you have a look yourself.

All of this gave me a great idea to boost the profits (and I use that word very loosely) of the Coffee House and perhaps picking up a little spare myself. I have now opened the Coffee Bitch's find-a-mate Agency. My fees are $20 to nail your ad to the wall and a slice of weddin’ pizza on completion of the nuptials. I think this is going to work as I got my first commission last week.

Gentleman Farmer with single wide (indoor outhouse), 1971 Ford F150 and donkey seeks widow or woman who’s up for it. Must be able to carry hay bale under each arm and have own tractor. Please send photo of tractor.

OK so that wasn’t the greatest of blogs but it is Sunday and it is so hard to concentrate on writing when there is so much noise coming from the kitchen. By way of an apology for wasting your time, here is a cartoon based on a recurring theme at the Coffee House.

I wonder what time lunch is.

TCB

Coffee, Justice and Mercy

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616),

"The Merchant of Venice", Act 4 scene 1

Just before 9:00 a young lad walks in and orders a large black one. He is clearly fashion challenged and has that pasty look of a French aristocrat who has just been told that a tumbrel has arrived at the front door. I gave him his caffeine and he plonks himself in the corner. At about 9:15 one of my visiting attorneys from Bigtown rushes in orders a coffee and starts to tell me that his client, who was due to be sentenced today, has failed to show. (I like this guy as he once described his job as getting bad people off so that they can continue to do bad things to good people). I gave him a quizzical look and nodded to the corner, yes indeed it was his errant scumbag. “What the hell are you doing here” he exclaimed. “Well” says scumbag “ I am going to prison today so how can things get worse?” According to my man they could get much worse as the judge was likely to add contempt of court to his seventeen (yes seventeen) felony charges, and that would double his sentence. That was enough to persuade the young man in the disco shirt to face the music like a man. After they had gone I bussed the table only to find that disco boy had failed to tip me. This was surprising, as we all knew that he was not going to need money where he was going. People can be very selfish at times so I sincerely hoped that Mrs Mental had overcooked Judge Mental’s boiled egg and put him in a bad mood. Alas not even that prayer was answered as I later learned that the Judge had forgiven the little tightwad’s contempt and given him just twenty months in the bighouse. Now if only failure to tip was a felony. As far as I am concerned Shakespeare can stick his quality of mercy nonsense, let’s fire up Ol’ Sparky.

Later that day Bertie Grabbitt (Sue, Grabbitt and Runne LLP) came in for a chat. He has just been appointed in the defense of a motorist in trouble. As (apparently) drugs are involved, the villain of the piece faces two counts of vehicular manslaughter. As a slight aside I have to admire Bertie’s professional etiquette. Whenever I refer to his clients as scumbags he always corrects me with “alleged scumbag”. Anyway as I type this, the alleged scumbag is lying in hospital with two smashed legs and is being served with papers (or whatever the correct term is). The Assistant District Attorney wants bail set at $50,000, although, with no legs, this guy can hardly be described as a flight risk. Bertie pointed out that the alleged scumbag has no money or insurance so he will not be posting bail. If he is locked up pending trial he becomes the Sheriff’s responsibility and the Sheriff will end up picking up the medical tab. The latest news is that the Sheriff is arguing that bail should be set at 25 cents. All of this gives me an idea for anyone with appendicitis and no medical insurance. At the first tinge of a guts ache moon the Sheriff. As soon as the jail door slams shut writhe around on the floor in agony and get taken to the hospital. Appendix removed for free (well on the Sheriff’s tab) and you get seven days of fetching and carrying. You might even be collecting jury lunches and coffees from me. If you do, don’t forget to tip me, remember I have powerful friends here in Kissbotty County.

Changing the law one statute at a time.

TCB

Coffee and Spiders

OK so this is a pretty tenuous link and it really has nothing to do with the Coffee House, but it cracked me up so I thought you might enjoy it as well. Regular blogging will resume as soon as possible
FYI depending on your security settings you might experience difficulties in playing the video. The best solution is to slowly left click the play arrow twice.

I am the spider.

TCB

Coffee and the bad start

Well that was a very sad start to the New Year. Having berated the Germans for being the laziest race on earth I discovered that America was closed yesterday. Well America might be a slight exaggeration but certainly Kissbotty County was shut as was Smalltown and the court. As a result I spent ten consecutive hours staring at the ceiling tiles. Actually that is not true. I have a little sideline breeding racing roaches under the counter and things have been going quite well. The star of my stable is getting pretty quick and I was thinking of entering him in the Smalltown Hurdles. We were just finishing our final training session when the boss walked in and shouted “Ugh roach” Splat. Goodbye Bertie we will miss you.

Kissbotty Radio (home to all the hits) have, as promised, stopped all that Christmas carol nonsense but get this. The last two months were just a time warp; we are now getting all the same songs that we got in November. Cassie Underpants is still inviting Jesus to take the wheel and the other silly squealer is still whining on about how her life is crap because of some poor innocent man (or her mother, if Austin is to be believed. I have no idea as I would rather eat my own genitals than watch a Kelly Clarkson video). Dick ‘n’ Ed the “presenters” are still as unbearably jolly as ever and I suppose that is the way of life here in Kissbotty county. No one likes change much and as a result Dick ‘n’ Ed have been doing the same thing since the 70’s. Well here’s a heads up chaps. When you announce “Dick ‘n’ Ed, exclusively on Kissbotty Radio”; this means that no other station in America want to franchise you. I wonder why.

Last week I noticed that many of our neighbors had taken down their Christmas decorations and indeed Dick ‘n’ Ed were saying today, that they had taken down theirs as well. I had assumed that our neighbors were just being curmudgeons until I saw the Smalltown cherry picker removing the wreaths from the lampposts. Now as you colonials know, God is an Englishman so as his representative in Kissbotty, let me tell you that the decorations are supposed to stay up until 12th night. For the hard of learning that is January 6th. Got it?

Today one of those appalling old TV evangelist types (Send me $1000 now) has announced that God has told him that there will be a terrorist attack on the US this year and apparently millions will be killed. How is that when these people hear voices in their heads they have a mainline to God and when I hear voices I am just a Schizoidbitch? Anyway I did hear a voice and God told me that taking down decorations before 12th night makes baby Jesus cry, so pack it in now! Oh well at least this story gave me an idea for the name of Bertie’s replacement I shall call him Pat Robertson.

So at the end of 10 hours of sensory deprivation one of my pretty little customers asked if we were hiring. She said that she was looking for at least 40 hours and I had to say that to be honest, so am I. I think she wants me.

Finally I haven’t seen the Digital Queen forever. It will be a hideous start to a fresh new year to discover that she has made a New Year’s resolution to give up lattes. The irony will be that one of my Nursey girlfriends from the hospital gave me a bottle of gamma hydroxybutyric acid for Christmas and I am anxious to give it a test run.

Taking care of business
TCB

The Bitch alsmost rants

Bonjour ma petite mange touts, or as we say in French “I’m back”. Welcome to 2007 where I thought I would start the year as I mean to continue, with a rant. Well I was going to have a moan at the quality of (or lack of) television programming. I say that I was going to, as I realized that after nearly a decade in the US I still have not realized that there are certain cultural icons that just do not change. A rant about Christmas television would probably leave most people shrugging their shoulders and thinking “so what?” Instead I shall therefore tell you about Christmas in my old country.

In order to fully appreciate the Christmas holiday, which after all is just an excuse to eat and drink yourself into a coma, you have to have a few days off. This means that you stop working around midday Christmas Eve and do not return until the 2nd January and that is a holiday. In case you are thinking what lazy twatbags we Brits are, you should consider what happens in Germany. Those crafty old Krauts have stitched up a whole load quasi-religious nonsense onto the second week of January. This means that after Christmas they celebrate St Wiltrudis of the Black Forest Day and whole load of other crap. In consequence, Germans do not return to work until the SECOND Monday of January, and that is laziness beyond comprehension. The good news is that Jerry is too lazy even to impregnate his woman. As a result birth rates in Germany are the lowest in the world at 1.37. (To sustain a population you need to crack 2.1) so we should be rid of them all in 100 years or so. To encourage Germans to copulate their government is offering $33,000 in benefits if you get your woman knocked up. Don’t believe me? Then check this out, and don’t forget to come back.

Anyway back to the traditional Brit Christmas, at the center of which is the television. What happens is that all the channels compete to get the highest ratings and so they buy the rights to the best movies and commission the Christmas specials of the most popular programs through the year. This means that the whole family sit around the TV together in front of a roaring fire drinking all those exotic drinks that normally you wouldn’t touch with a bargepole. How I miss the Reith lectures from the Royal Albert Hall, the classic movies and the Queen’s speech. So why is it that in the US television stations seem to pretend that Christmas is just another day? I looked up the schedule on the Bigtown local station for Christmas Day and at 5:00 we were treated to Judge Judy. Come on people, I am sure that Judy Shenfeld is a fine jurist and a caring compassionate judge but for the love of God it’s Christmas here. Later I did a little research and found the three top programs of the Christmas holiday, we had.

Number 1. Deal or No Deal
Number 2. 1 vs. 100
Number 3. CSI, Miami

But get this people, the CSI was a repeat. The third most popular program was a repeat and the top two were mindless game shows. Jesus what a Christmas. Let me tell you that your television is totally to blame for the fact that I was found in the hot tub on Christmas Day, tired and emotional (aka drunk out of my mind) apparently using empty beer cans as an exfoliant. This does not pass as family entertainment in the Boss’s house so I was consigned to the basement to think about what I had done. Of course I would not have been in such deep do-do if she had just told me that she had added uric acid detecting crystals to the hot tub water. Women can be so picky.

Still on the bright side being the Coffee Bitch meant that I got more than my fair share of party invites. Unfortunately (and this is true) the Boss has developed and allergy to alcohol which now gives her a pounding head and the most vicious of squirts. The end result is that I have a DD for life and that is a sweet deal. I suppose I should feel guilty about slipping that Al-Abuse medication in her coffee but needs must and I do like to party. Anyway what’s the point in being nice to the Smalltown Hospital nurses if you can’t get the odd bottle of Acamprosate, Prosac and a couple of Roofies on the house.

Partying like it’s 1984, or something.

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