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.

Coffee and Hells Bankers (cont)

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Coffee and more temptation

Ah Friday again, if ever there was a day that set my loins on fire it is Friday and it looks like a fine end to a fine week. We started off with quite a few visits from Smalltown’s young mothers; apparently the kindergartens close during spring break so the ladies are stuck with their sprogs and, in need of respite, they take them out for coffee. Now some of these ladies are PHAT so I definitely gave them more attention than is strictly necessary. In any other business this would be called stalking, but here in coffeeworld I can get away with unrestricted letching. I happened to notice that one of them had a nice little rose tattooed on her stomach and as you know I am a sucker for that stuff. She seemed pretty cool about showing me even though I accidentally pulled a button or two off in my haste to unbutton her blouse. The snot gobblers are a bit of a nuisance but I find that a couple of loops of duct tape works wonders, and to be frank the look of pathetic gratitude on these mother’s faces is the only reward I need. If the visits continue into next week I shall know that it is not just the coffee that they are after. Watch this space.

We also salute the legal system this week. My favorite telephone call involves the words “jury lunches” and we got the call twice this week. Of course it is not just the jury lunches but also all the visiting attorneys who have not yet discovered my penchant for providing truly indifferent service. I tell you people, some days the streets of Smalltown are paved with gold.

Talking of attorneys, as we were, here is a completely true story. Freddy Sue ( Sue Grabbit and Runne LLP) was too busy to walk down the hill for a lunch, so he sent one of his women. (As a slight aside this must be a southern thing, as Yankee women and for that matter English women don’t fetch lunch or collect dry cleaning for the boss, now back to the story). Bertie Grabbit and Ronnie Runne were already in and were chowing down. So our lady of the lunch orders the usual for Freddy and then says, “Freddy told me to give you a $2 tip”. Under normal circumstances I don’t like to accept tips on carryouts, oh who am I kidding I grabbed the two bucks and jammed them in the pickle jar before she changed her mind. After she had gone I related the tale to Bertie and Ronnie and mentioned how nice it was and that perhaps they could consider doing the same so that I got tipped out but didn’t have to suffer their presence (I know, I really am a great host aren’t I?). Well the odd thing was that Bertie didn’t really fight back much and our conversation was like pulling the wings off flies so I gave up. It turns out that Bertie has a little pile of morning medications and a pile of evening medications. The evening meds include a sleeping pill and can you guess what Bertie did? Of course you can. I noticed right away but I wonder if his clients did.
The next day Bertie came in with his wife and daughter. He asked for his usual so I proffered two lines of coke and a spliff, how we all laughed, happy days.

Do you remember our old friend the mountain man from previous blogs? He has become quite a regular and I still get a kick out of watching this huge hillbilly drinking white tea out of bone china. He is a great guy and also somewhat of a ballroom dancer. Apparently he has been taking lessons for years and now he is the redneck Fred Astaire. Actually the humor of this is all visual so I guess this paragraph is fairly pointless. Still look on the bright side, I had to type this nonsense whereas you, dear reader, merely have to flit your eyes to the next paragraph.

It turns out that I may have been a little too hasty in dismissing the avaricious advances of BB&T. Having received a statement which shows a zero dollar balance I have now received notification from some debt collectors in West Virginia. Clearly the moronic moneygrubbers at BB&T don’t realize that western Virginia and West Virginia are not the same place. Still bring it on boys I can’t wait to see you collect on a debt of $0.

And that was the week. Thanks to Bertie’s mix up on the meds I was able to seriously shortchange him and as a result, tonight I shall slip into the arms of Bacchus on a river of Grolsch instead of that poison from Milwaukee.

Watch out liver here comes Friday night.
TCB

The Bitch Shows and Tells

Another day of laughter and lattes draws to a happy conclusion. We actually had a blinding day as the register showed we took $575,121, comfortably a Coffee House record. Sadly closer inspection revealed that the total might have been due to my ineptitude when playing the Boss’s piano (aka the register). So not only was the register light by some $574,534 but we now owe Virginia $28,756.05 in sales tax and Smalltown $23,004.84 in meals tax. Now I don’t know how staff appraisals are done at GE and Hewlett Packard but here in the Coffee House they are done with a swift knee to the groin, which is why, once again, I am typing whilst sitting in a bucket of iced water.

A little earlier we played a game of show and tell. As you will recall I decided to get myself inked up again and put a portrait of FOTL2 on my shoulder. You will also recall that DQ showed more than a passing interest. Well DQ and DQ’sF were in and DQ decided that she wanted a sneak peek. So I showed my artwork, DQ’sF showed her belly button stud (and damned exotic it was too) and DQ showed ….. errr…. emmm oh that’s right, nothing, zip, nada. What a rip. I tell you people I am so getting that woman inked up. I figure a small coffee bean under the bikini line maybe. Try explaining that one away to Mr. DQ

Finally do you remember Coffee and the age of innocence? If not click the link. I was thrilled to see that even the Bard is in on the act. Hundreds of years ago he said it far more eloquently than I ever could.

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's Day?

Better to that than to the Summer's Eve,

A popular feminine deodorant spray

That hardly puts me in the mood for love.

-William Shakespeare

TCB

The Coffee Bitch Wins

I am delighted to report that once again Bertie Grabbit has worked his magic and the feltch babies at BB&T folded faster than Superman on laundry day. Yes indeed, yesterday the USPS delivered yet another missive from North Carolina but this time far from threatening me with financial ruin and hemorrhoids they credited the account with $99 (all the fees and penalties that they levied) which brought the account balance to zero and then they closed the account. I find it somewhat ironic that this is the result I wanted some months ago. I wonder how much this nonsense cost BB&T, or to be more acurate you, the poor saps that actually pay their outrageous charges. Still it’s always the way, when you are steeled for a good punch up you are faced with capitulation. I was sort of looking forward to standing shoulder to shoulder with Bertie in Federal Court whilst he does his renowned impersonation of Winston Churchill “This Sir, simply will not stand”. Oh well perhaps if Bertie can work some more magic in my Anna Nicole Smith paternity suit I will have my day in court.

Coffee Bitch 1; Lily livered bean counters 0

Coffee and Body Art

It’s been a funny start to the week. Mondays are usually our graveyard days. I have zip to do (apart from looking busy so that the Boss doesn’t find work for idle hands). I have set up a few mirrors so that I can sit at my coffee station and look into the kitchen. I tell you, I can watch women work all day. The mirrors also have the advantage of alerting me to the approach of the Boss so that I can a) look busy and b) wipe the pastry crumbs off my apron. It’s a life I tell you. For some bizarre reason Monday was huge, we never stopped working and that is what I need to talk to you about. You see when we are busy and you arrive, you can be assured that the service is going to be crappier than normal. So it seems to me that you have a few options. The best plan (A) would be to come in, leave a nice big tip, apologize for bothering me when I am busy and leave. Failing this you could walk around the block a couple of times and see how we are on your return. If we are still busy revert to plan A and we will all be happy. Anyway give it some thought and we can see how it goes.

In contrast Tuesday was so quiet even the roaches came out for a picnic. I was so bored I decided that I would go get myself inked up again. This body art business is hugely addictive which is odd as it is not exactly pleasant. It is not that it hurts or anything, it is just a long, long time to be sitting still. Well I was discussing this with DQ and she was looking at me with that mixture of interest and apprehension. We chatted a bit more and I think that she might be a candidate for a spot of body art. Of course it might be more fun not to involve her in the decision loop. I think perhaps a roofie latte, bundled into the back of the company minivan and a trip to Magic Dan’s needle emporium. Now what would DQ like to wake up to tomorrow morning? Perhaps a horny little devil?

I really do have too much time on my hands don’t I?
TCB

The Bitch walks through the woods.

We have, here in Smalltown, a religious sect (although I am sure that they would hardly thank me for calling them a sect). Now the ladies are quite a pleasant bunch but in contrast the men are a dour bunch of mono-syllabatical (yes I know, he just made that word up) miseries. It is almost like they have an eleventh commandment, “Thou shall not enjoy thy life”. It is all very strange but stranger than this is the fact that the ladies scare me. Yes I actually feel my pulse rate and BP start to surge and I have just realized why.

As I may have already mentioned I was pretty much self raised and for want of better company, used to immerse myself in as many books as I could. I cannot recall where my parents were but as the faithful reader will already know Mummy was not in the kitchen. In order to explain where the old man was I need to tell you a little tale. Decades ago English pubs would have two bars with separate entrances. One would be the public bar, which was pretty much sawdust and spittoons, whilst the other would be the lounge bar (or select or snug or similar), which would be nicely decorated with a carpet and comfortable seats. In order to pay for the near utopian conditions of the lounge bar the landlord would charge an extra few pence for the drinks and this also had the bonus effect of keeping nearly all the cheap bastards out of the “posh” end. I say nearly as it was common practice for my old man to order in the public and when the landlord's back was turned, sneak out of the door, across the parking lot and into the lounge (yes, all to save 2p a pint). The real bonus for the old boy was that in those days the landlord would always place trays of snacks and tasty nibbles on the bar and this was where the old man would obtain his nutritious and free evening meal. You will be the better enabled to judge his meanness when you discover that he had rubber lined pockets so that he could take the contents of the drip tray home with him at night. Well that was a strange tale, wasn’t it? Now back to the point.

I read and I read and I read. As soon as I could I read. Then I found the Brothers Grimm. Was there ever a more appropriate name for an author? Dear God what is all that about? These are nasty, nasty stories, full of child murder, abandonment, incest and necrophilia (Sleeping Princess my ass, the bitch is dead you pervert). The worst of these “children’s tales” has to be Hansel and Gretel. I was about four years old when I read this and I tell you people I didn’t close my eyes for a week afterwards. If you do not know this charmless little tale have a look here, but most of all look at the picture. There it is, the witch’s bonnet, that is what scares the living crap out of me. Every time I see one of these people I imagine being shoved into an oven, albeit a damned huge oven these days, and cooked alive.

Sleeping with my eyes wide open.
TCB

Coffee and Dirt

Well it has been yet another day of crushing disappointments. All I wanted was a little excitement or possibly nudity or failing that, some juicy gossip, but no, the fickle finger of fate once again failed to point at the Coffee Bitch. I thought the day was going to start with some excitement when a guy came in real early, told me that he would order in a second, sat down and starting getting out his fixings. Well as I have repeatedly said I am the most tolerant Bitch in the world but even my world has limits (honestly, it does, no really it does). So pausing only to collect my buddy Mr Glock from under the counter I prepare to escort him gracefully off the premises. Seeing me approach he held up his hand and said “It’s OK I am a diabetic”. Well he sorted himself out and then apologized for shooting up in public but apparently it was an emergency fix. By now he is either hypo or hyper glycemic and he needs his carbs for which purpose he orders three monster BLTs and a gallon of soda so all is forgiven. However I still watched him eat with my finger hovering over the 1 having already dialed 9-1.

Years ago back in the UK I had a buddy whose pancreas died at the age of 30 and sadly he went straight onto the needle. Whilst he was getting used to insulin he carried a card that read something along the lines of; I am a diabetic if I appear to be intoxicated I maybe in insulin shock. Please call Emergency Services”. I thought this was such a neat idea I carried a card that said, “I am a drunk. If I appear to be intoxicated I probably am, do not inject me with anything”.

Later DQ’s friend came in with a colleague for lunch so I thought I might just pump her for some dirt on DQ. Of all the people in Smalltown I was sure that DQ would be a rich and hitherto untapped source of indiscretions. DQ’sF (for want of a better nom de plume) started off with “We went on a conference together once”. Oh yeah baby this is what I want to hear, “but nothing bad happened”. Putting my tape recorder away I turned to her colleague who told me that she graduated High School with the girly lawyer next door and what is more the girly lawyer was a cheerleader. Now one hesitates to make sweeping generalizations but I think that we can agree here that all cheerleaders are noisy, promiscuous little trollops whose only ambition is to gratify the needs of the quarterback under the bleachers. So pen akimbo I waited only to be told that she was a really nice person. God if things get anymore refined here I will have to start inventing stories.

Next time these two are going to get one of my famous Ketamine Hydrochloride lattes and then we will see who is the pillar of discretion.

Watch this space
TCB