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.