Coffee and Fireworks

I decided that we would celebrate the 4th (or sleazy traitors war of insolence against the King day as I prefer to call it). So we invited a few of our favorite customers (all two of them) to Chateau Caffeine for a spot of barbecue and some fireworks. Both the barbie and the fireworks necessitated a trip to Bigtown and just for a change we spent a glorious Sunday morning at Sam's Club. The very next day the Kissbotty Gazette had a front page article from the Fire Marshall reminding all of us Kissbotians that fireworks were illegal in Kissbotty County. WTF! I have been screwed again by Sam's who are conveniently situated in another county, what a rip!

I can't help thinking that fireworks should be legal everywhere on the 4th. After all you people did rebel against your King so what if a few homes get burnt down, it's a small price to pay.

PS My guests (who were clearly not impressed with the selection from Sam's) decided that next year we should all pop across the state line, into North Carolina where apparently they really know how to make fireworks.

Coffee and Jack Lalanne

Fruit of the loins I and II both came home for Father's Day which was a rare treat indeed. FOTLI recently bought a juicer and has been boring me to sobs about it for weeks. Well she took it upon herself to bring it down in order to demonstrate how great it was. I have to say that I kind of enjoyed messing with it and we made some cool drinks; carrot and orange, kiwi and grape, melon and celery and my favorite, bloody marys. Being the curious person that I am I had to try the pulp to see what that was like. The carrot was dreadfully dry, the orange was nice as was the kiwi, the melon was not up to much at all. All in all I probably ate more roughage that I had ever had and of course there had to be consequences. Yes indeed, I spent all of Father's Day on the crapper courtesy of that smug git Jack Lalanne and three weeks later I still don't dare fart. Worst Father's Day ever

Coffee and Porn

Once again , my favorite theme. Now remember folks you heard it first here, Smalltown is about to get its first porno store, I am so excited I can hardly wait. No doubt you are amazed that I have scooped the Smalltown Gazette and even the Bigtown News but there it is and this is how it went down.

Hugh Jazz (the town manager) and (Simple) Simon Hemmer (Hemmer, Royds, and Piles LLP) the town's attorney were having a meeting and so secret was it that they decided to have it in the Coffee House (I know, what were they thinking)? It turns out that some porn empire has decided that the good citizens of Kissbotty county need to have their love lives jazzed up with a touch of erotica and as Smalltown is the county seat where better to open shop but here. Much to their chagrin the town's elders have been informed by Simple Simon that it is unconstitutional to ban porn from the town. The best that they can do is make life difficult by enacting all sorts of vindictive legislation. For example, they cannot situate outside a school (mind you they probably would not want the pro bono competition, see here) and so on. Still I know how these things work, there will be much huffing and puffing and eventually the porn boys will bung a few Franklins to the council and we will be away.

The last time the Boss and I accidentally stumbled into a porn store we found ourselves in the artificial wiener department. After much deliberation the Boss selected a rather ambition model in black with a white top. She got to the checkout and the clerk said "Madam, that is my vacuum flask".

Happy days

Coffee and Sufferage

As I have mentioned from time to time, Kissbotty county is a pretty rural agrarian environment with classic southern values. It is not unusual to see the dog in the front seat of the pickup with the woman riding the bed and many folk adhere to the old Shakespearean quote of "A woman, a dog, and a walnut tree, The more you beat 'em, the better they be." Not of course that I subscribe to such nonsense you understand but when in Rome.......

Anyway I was on my travels this morning when I spotted one of those magnetic ribbon thingies stuck to the side of a minivan. Instead of saying "Support our troops" it said "End domestic violence now". This is what happens when you allow Yankees to move into our country. I tell you people this is just going to upset the equilibrium and before you know where you are women will be expecting to vote. Worse still if Kissbotty women realize that the female orgasm is not an urban legend I am going to be screwed (or not screwed more likely).


For now I am going to get my own ribbons made and every time I see a domestic violence ribbon I shall replace it with a "Iron my shirt" ribbon.


Recently these Yankee "women" held some sort of protest meeting, can you spot me?

The Health Inspector

Well we got through another snap health inspection this morning. I guess that after 4 straight all clears the inspector felt the need to flex his regulatory muscles. The best that he could do was to point out that the tomatoes were a bit on the warm side. The boss pointed out that they had only just been purchased and he would be better employed checking the temperature of the chiller at the Walmarts but he was having none of it.

After he was safely out of earshot (I am not that stupid) I mentioned that if he wanted to mess with the fruit he could always check out the temperature of my plums. The boss looked at me and without the slightest hint of shame mentioned that the only reason that we ever passed a health inspection was that she allowed him to check the temperature of her melons.

What a trollop!

Coffee and Drugs

Fruit of the Loin II is coming home for the summer next week. When we lived in North Virginia there were so many restaurants and stores that they pretty much dragged kids of the streets and offered them jobs. Here in Kissbotty jobs are few and far between and I suspect they are saved for the local kids. Last year FOTLII had no luck in finding summer employment and ended up being used as slave labor here in the Coffee House. Determined that this was not going to happen ever again she made a list of every potential employer in Kissbotty (excluding me and the Boss). I noticed that on her list was the local Homo Depot and she had been told that they were a pretty good employer. As it happens the manager is a fairly regular customer so I offered to put in a word, which I did. Unbelievably FOTLII made an unexpected visit yesterday and whilst she was here the Homo Depot manager turned up. I introduced them and he offered to interview her straight away, mentioning with a wink that next week might be too late.

So she trots off, gets interviewed and passes a urine test. You have no idea how disappointed I am. How can a child of mine possibly pass a snap drug test without a week to flush out? This is clearly a complete waste of a college education.

Coffee and Fruit of the Loin II

Coffee and the Hill Folk

So a couple of hill folk wander in yesterday afternoon. They were fairly smartly dressed and I was bored so I thought I would entertain them with my stories and general wit. After a while we got to a show and tell of our tattoos and I have to say that I am in awe of these ladies who unashamedly display their little nooks and crannies. Well the afternoon drew to a close and she told me that she had often passed by the Coffee House but never before come in. She said that she thought it was an uppity place for lawyers and the like but now she had met me she realized that wasn't the case.

Color me speechless.

Coffee and the brown trout

Today we have a sad anniversary here in Southern Virginia. Of course it has brought out all the nutcases and one even had the temerity to leave their pamphlet in my slice of coffee heaven. Inside this glossy toilet roll I am told that school shooting are caused by people who believe in evolution as they have no regard for life. Well so far so good but then we get serious and it seems that anyone who looks at a pretty woman is a fornicator and anyone who has had sex outside of marriage is going straight to hell. Well Kissbotty it looks like we are all doomed. I tell you I am so tempted to start the Coffee Bitches Church of Satanology. I could leave leaflets telling people that they will not go to hell if they don't fornicate (preferably with me). Now I think about it, every single church is about send me your money and every single cult is about having sex with your leader. I could be onto something here.

On a different tack, the Dean of Students at Collegetown has closed every single student kitchen. There has been a spate of students urinating in the ovens and then turning them on to high. Then they started to load them up with text books and turning them on, oblivious to what happens to paper at 475 degrees. The latest prank (and what has caused the Dean to close the kitchens) is that someone has developed a penchant for cooking faeces, isn't that nice? So Fruit of the Loins Two who is a grown up grad student cannot cook her dinner because someone has been crimping off a length and microwaving brown trouts.

I mention this only because in the wake of the Virginia Tech massacre some "experts" believe that students should be armed on campus. Would you really want a Glock 27 in the hands of someone who gets their goodies from roasting dumps?

Coffee and the Drag Queens

Lawdy, lawdy, lawdy I am back from therapy after having judged the "womanless" beauty pageant. What a nightmare! My fellow judges were some local businesswoman and a weather forecaster whose main claim to fame was being fired for posting pictures of his wiener on Myspace. Actually on reflection I think that a "friend" did it for him and in consequence I was not sure which side of the street he was driving on. Fortunately I had the woman as a bufferzone but I can tell you I was pretty clenched all night.

I can also tell you that Kissbotty's finest transvestites are a pretty ugly bunch and during the course of the evening one of them had the audacity to kiss me. That sort of nonsense hasn't happened to me since the 7th grade at St Edwards Church of England School when I foolishly followed a trail of M&Ms into the boiler room and was ravished by Mr. Toerag the janitor. On a slightly happier note, unlike Mr Toerag, Miss Mona Lott didn't use her tongue and for that small mercy I shall be forever grateful.

Now if you will excuse me I am off to Kissbotty High School to score me some naughty schoolgirl porn and try to restore some heterosexuality here.

TCB.

Coffee and the Bog

As I have mused in the past, there seems to be a certain genre of woman who really should not be allowed to breed. Heavens knows why they do because clearly they are not enjoying the experience (although perhaps they overly enjoy the conception part). Anyway it strikes me that they spend the next 18 years pretty much ignoring their little snot gobblers which causes the nasty little sprog to clamor for attention and become even more obnoxious which causes Mommy to ignore it even more and the circle is complete.

Today such a Mother graced me with her presence. She looked like a smartly dressed businesswoman who had unexpectedly and unwillingly had to pick up the brat. She ordered a sandwich for herself and a high sugar content dessert for the fruit of her loins. The kid ran its grubby little paws across my windows (which had only just been cleaned last year) and constantly pestered the Mom who was studiously ignoring it. Eventually I heard her say that she would be right back and the kid whine on about not wanting to be alone. After a short interchange where she folded faster than Superman on laundry day she dragged the kid off to our luxury restroom facilities. A few minutes later they both emerge and walk up to the register to pay. Before I could ring them up the kid announced in a loud voice. “My Mommy did a smelly poo in there”. Well I know that the kid finally got her attention because she actually groaned in embarrassment. There were of course a thousand things that I could have said to ease her pain but you know I just made eye contact and reveled in the moment.

Sometimes I actually do like children, I really do.

TCB.

Coffee and Court

Once again from the "you could not make this stuff up" department we have another true tale from the Coffee House.

Judge Mental was in yesterday for his lunch which was unusual as he doesn't normally do a Friday. I suspected that he had read the blog and was angling for his free lunch. Well I can tell you that he angled in vane because as we say in the corporate world, he has missed his window of opportunity for a blue horizon gratis gastronome experience (Damn, I wish I knew what that meant). Still I was nevertheless bowing and scraping and treating him with the reverence that his omnipotent powers demand.

After he left the lady at the next table (who had clearly been eavesdropping on my ingratiation) asked if the was Judge Mental. She then went on to explain that she was supposed to be in front of him that morning but had sat in the wrong court. Now the Circuit Court was not sitting on Friday so she clearly spent all morning in the Juvenile Court. She missed the fact that Judge Mental is a man, Judge Jenny Taylia (Juvenile Court) is clearly a woman (and what a woman) and she saw a parade of children being sentenced to deportation to Smallscrote County, or whatever they do.

She had traveled from South Carolina and the other party had flown in from Seattle and she had blown it. Now she is asking me if I think that Judge Mental will reschedule. Well I discovered many years ago that unhappy customers seldom tip very well so I told her that he certainly would and not to worry as this happens all the time. The truth, of course, is somewhat different and I still recall with schadenfreude the day that (Simple) Simon Hemmer (Hemmer, Royd and Piles LLP) spent a morning in my arms and tears when Judge Mental found for the defendant because he was 5 minutes late for court.

I hope that she learnt a lesson here as she decided not to have her attorney in court because he had already ripped her for a grand for some trivial paperwork. Of course had she used the legal beagle then she might have ended up in the right court and perhaps even won her case.

I tell you, bloody lawyers, You can't live with them and you can't live without them. The bastards.

Coffee and Porn

You will recall from an earlier blog that Kissbotty County has but one High School, excitingly it is in the news again and every word of this is true, as you really could not make this stuff up.
It transpires that there is a young lady student at the high school who is somewhat proud of her marital skills. So proud is she, that she decided to record herself performing what is euphemistically known as a sex act on a fellow student. Then for reasons apparent only to herself she sent a few copies to friends and as you can imagine this viral video spread like wildfire. (Aren’t cell phones wonderful? I tell you when I was a lad all we had were crudely drawn cartoons and I am sure that most of them were drawn by the Gym coach in order to make us feel inadequate in the genitalia department).

Of course it was not long before a copy fell into the hands of someone in authority and then all hell broke loose. The police were called in and they confiscated every single cell in the school. Not that I am any sort of child psychologist but if I were, I might take the young lady aside and explain that when you make a home made sex tape you set yourself up with a legacy that will absolutely come back to bite you when you try to enter Congress or take up some position of authority in later life. (Actually that is a lie, if I ever did find this young lady I would marry her, still I digress). The boys in blue took a different approach and arrested everyone who had a copy of the video on child pornography charges. It seems to me to be a little over the top to place half of Kissbotty’s High School students on the sex offenders register and ruin their little lives even before they become adults. There is plenty of time to grind their hopes and aspirations into the doormat of the welfare line after they have grown up.

So Bertie Grabbitt (Sue, Grabbitt and Runne LLP) and I were discussing this when I happened to mention that if he (the great defender that he is) were to take on Miss Teen BJ 2008 as a client he could get hold of the evidence and pass me a copy. Puffing himself up to his full judicial majesty he told me that if he did that then we would both be hauled up on child porn charges. No Bertie, I replied you misunderstand for you would just be calling on the services of an expert witness for I assure you when it comes to porn I am a Viking.

The Coffee Bitch

P.S. Dear Miss Teen BJ 2008 if you would like a free coffee you know who to call.

Coffee and the traffic stop

Well it looks like the local boys read this blog as they took me up on the offer I made in Coffee and Speed (part I). The Boss is hugely pissed about this. It was not so much the road side cavity search that upset her (frankly I think that she was up for it).

No what set her off was when one of the cops radioed back to base to say that they would need a bigger flashlight.

I tell you people sometimes I laugh so much I think that my pants will never dry.

Coffee and the Radio

This is a post that should have gone up two days ago, my bad.

As you know I am not a great fan of Kissbotty Radio (home to all the hits). Amongst their crimes are the love affair that they seemingly have with Kelly Clarkson and Cassie Underpants as well as being Virginia's official Christmas station. Apparently this means that you have a mandate to play only Christmas songs starting at Memorial Day and quite frankly by the time Christmas rolls around I want to put a bullet in my head.

Well two days ago they announce that their market research had discovered that their rating would go through the roof if they played Christmas every day! For two hours they gave us Bing and Carpenters and brought back so many unhappy memories. Eventually they 'fessed up to this all being and April 1 jolly wheeze. (Not that I didn't see that coming in the first 20 seconds).

The tragedy of all of this was that hundreds of Kissbotians called in to say what a great idea 24/7/365 Christmas music was.

Kissbotty I weep for you.

Coffee and the Judge

Judge Mental was in for lunch today. When he came up to pay I related the tale in Coffee and Speed (part I) and concluded by saying "So some nice kind Judge dismissed the charges". He looked at me, smiled, winked and said " Well it could not have been me, I am not a nice kind Judge".

So I didn't comp his lunch and that I think is a win win situation.

Coffee and Speed (partII)

Some very strange people came into the Coffee House yesterday. They dressed like they were twenty but looked like they were fifty. The ordered coffee and breakfast sandwiches but one asked if he could have the bacon soft as he had no teeth. There was something strangely fascinating about these people and I assumed that perhaps they were hill folk who had come into town for some annual pilgrimage to stock up on grits and welfare checks. I have to confess that I was kind of please to see them wander off but less that pleased to discover that not only had they purloined all the sugar from the table but also the sugar from the surrounding tables. I mentioned this to the Boss and the first thing she said was "damned meth heads". According to the Boss an addiction to sugar and no teeth are the classic signs.

All of this leaves me doubly confused. First off, if this is the result of taking meth why would you even take it let alone pay for it. Secondly how does the Boss know so much about this stuff? Tonight, after she falls asleep, I will take a pair of pliers and wiggle a few of her little pegs to see what happens.

Coffee and Speed (part1)

So FOTL1, FOTL2 and Slugger all come home for the weekend, and what a weekend of barbecue, beer, shooting and general mayhem it was.

On Friday Slugger decides to visit his Alma Mater and leaves FOTL1 to her own devices (which is never a good idea). About 11:00 FOTL1 is bored so she calls me to ask where the spare truck keys are (notice that she doesn't ask if she can borrow the truck). About an hour later I am pacing the floor asking where my truck could be when FOTL1 arrives looking shaky and carrying a big yellow sheet of paper. It turns out that she was pulled by a State trooper for doing 80 in a 55. The cop informs her that she has transcended mere speeding and is now comfortably in the reckless zone. FOTL1 asks if being engaged to one of Maryland's finest might help her out. Astonishingly the cop acquiesces and agrees to write her up at 74 and thus bring her back to the realm of speeding. Then he asks to see the registration which I keep in the center console that FOTL1 does not know exists. Now, and this is where the story gets really strange, the cop decides to write her up for failure to produce registration, but not speeding! Well the FOTL1 takes the penalty notice and the registration to the Kissbotty court which as you know is next door to the Coffee House and offers to plead guilty now as she will be back in Maryland next week and can't make the court date. The clerk takes the papers before Judge Mental who dismisses the charges.
From reckless driving to nothing in less than 60 minutes, only FOTL1 could pull that off.

However there are some points that still concern me. The first is, what did that little Jezebel think she was doing driving my beloved truck at 80 miles and hour? Secondly, I don't think that she actually learned anything from this. So if you are a cop and you see the most manly truck in Kissbotty, feel free to pull it over and give the driver a full roadside cavity search. This offer does not apply if you find a hairy arsed Englishman driving.

TCB

PS Slugger tells me that he will always reduce a reckless to speeding unless the driver gives him earache. The lesson here, kiddies, is to always respect your cop.

Coffee, Power and Plays

There is but one High School in the whole of Kissbotty County. I am sure that like me you will find this surprising as, after all, how much educashun does one need to grow tobacco and brew white lightening? I suppose the fact that we have even one school must be largely due to some interfering federal mandate that only serves to raise these poor little mite's hopes of a career just to later dash them against the grill of a McDonald's fryer.

Anyhoo, the boss and I decided to support these future burdens on the welfare state and see one of their school plays. Astoundingly it was all rather jolly and despite my misgivings I had a good time. It was, however a sad mark of the times that not only did the play have to be censored but in addition one of the mothers had to read a speech beforehand explaining that these kids were just acting and didn't really mean what they were saying. Heads up here folks, that is why it is called acting.


Afterwards we decided to grab a little Mexican (food that is) and managed to sneak in about 2 minutes before closing. As a general rule I don't normally do this as I know that when you piss off the kitchen staff they invariably snot up in your enchilada, but I was hungry enough to ingest a little mucus. As soon as our appetisers arrived, cheese dip for the boss and 4 Coronas for me, all the lights went out. Assuming that this was a hint to leave I started to hurl abuse at the staff only to discover that the east side of Smalltown was in darkness. Eventually Pepe asked if we would like our food to go. Sensing an opportunity to turn a drama into a crisis I told the boss to leave this to me and proffered a credit card. Of course with no power, the terminal didn't work. Looking as sad as I possibly could and under the cover of darkness I palmed my twenties and apologetically offered a five which they gratefully accepted. I later discovered that the fajita when served on a hot skillet is infinitely more attractive than cold and congealed in a poly box. Still whilst the lights were off I did manage to swipe all the flatware, two bottles of hot sauce and a very nice cheese dip dish.

TCB.

PS. The following day the town's tow truck driver came in and told me a story of how a drunken teenager had made an appointment with death by trying to ram a power pole. God clearly smiles of drunks in Smalltown as she rode up the support cable until the car was resting on its rear bumper. In order to get the car down Redneck Power had to turn the town off so he could pull her out, hence the power outage.

Coffee and the Porker

So Fruit of the Loin 1 and Slugger are settling down into domestic bliss and they decide that their happiness will be complete if they get a dog. Being the socially responsible adults , do-gooders that they are, they decide to adopt and they find this bloater. The story is that he has been rescued from a puppy mill

Now let make this point. If I am ever kidnapped by white slavers and set to stud impregnating women who want possible Ph.D. foetuses and I am being overfed and you "rescue" me, I will kill you, do you understand?

Coffee and Onions

There are a few days when I really don’t care anymore. It’s not that I don’t care about the business per se, but when I feel that I have done enough then I have done enough. At this point my usually desultory service becomes surly and I just don’t have the patience to twat about with your ridiculous requests and questions. I am sorry but there it is, sometimes a man can only do so much.

Today was a fine example. The morning coffee crowd was in and we did a cracking session of lattes, cappos, muffins and bagels. Then just before lunch Postman Pat turned up with a bumper check from Kissbotty County in settlement of a catering order. At this point I realized that we had already reached an acceptable daily taking so I voted to take the rest of the day off. Sadly the boss used her casting vote (aka a knee in the nadgers) to dash even my smallest of dreams. So, steeling myself for the lunchtime rush and jamming an icepack down the front of my shreddies the following took place. An elderly patron asked for soup and the cheese and onion muffin. After I had gone to all the trouble of writing her ticket and taking it all the way to the kitchen she then flags me down to let me know that she has just realized that the cheese and onion muffin has onion in it and she doesn’t like onion, so could she please have it without onion.

Not really being in the mood for jollity I was forced to point out that the freaking muffins are not actually baked to order and perhaps she should take the hint from the menu that the cheese and onion muffins might contain onion.

Honestly a cheese and onion without the onion, my life has turned into a Monty Python sketch.

Coffee and Smoke

Before you start this little tale of country folk you should probably nip over to my other blog and have a squint at this http://kimscar.blogspot.com/2008/03/smoker.html I promise that we will wait for you.

OK welcome back, now as I was saying. I was pottering around in Homo Depot collecting bits and pieces to finish the project when I bumped into one of my customers. Spying the armfuls of dexion and angle iron he mentioned that it looked like I was into a project. Ever one to regale my fellow man with a story or two I explained the design behind the smoker. He then shared his design for a Kissbotty smoker (and I swear that this is verbatim). You find an abandoned refrigerator and strip out all the plastic. You then put back the racks and use an Hibachi grill full of wood to smoke you meat. Of course you need to vent the smoke from the top for which purpose the correct tool of choice is a 12 gauge! Isn't that great?

He also gave me a recipe for beans. You place a bucket of beans on the base of the refrigerator next to the Hibachi but under the meat. This was so that the fat from the meat would fall into the bucket and make the best beans ever. He looked at me wistfully and said "That was before we discovered cholesterol now food tastes like crap"

People like these are why I am never leaving Kissbotty County

Coffee and reviews

So I was lounging around, avoiding work, when my eyes fell on the restaurant review section of the Bigtown News. Quite recently a new upscale restaurant has opened just up the road from us and the filthy hack from Bigtown had written a report. As you know my opinion of journalists is that they are the second oldest profession and the oldest is more honorable. True to form the hack gloatingly admitted that he took his wife out for her birthday and then wrote the review. In other words her birthday treat was on the company dime, the tight bastard. I tell you if I was Mrs Hack I know what Mr. Hack would not be getting for his pudding for pulling a cheap stunt like that, still I digress.

Well the review was pretty sad. Indifferent food, indifferent service (..... the server only stopped at our table on her way to somewhere else....) and a high price. Hardly what one might expect from our only fine dining eatery. Not that I have an ounce of schadenfreude in me but I confess I laughed until I cried. Oh to be an undercover food critic.

Then it suddenly dawned on me, perhaps they have done the same to our bistro deli coffee house. I can see the review now.

"The food was quite nice but the server kept looking at my wife's jubblies, winking and lifting the corner of his apron".

Damn if this gets out I am dead meat.

TCB

Good news, good news, bad news

Good News.
Mr Fixit called in yesterday and although the Espresso machine was working I wanted him to check it out anyway. Well the verdict was that the machine was in fine fettle (despite the bastards at the Quality Coffee Co., Bigtown telling me that it was beyond repair). He gave me great maintenance tips and I was so impressed that I actually broke the habits of a lifetime and tipped him out.

Good News II

The second piece of good news is that I have been invited to judge a beauty pageant! How sweet is that? The organisers obviously realise that I have a fine and discriminating eye for the ladies. I am also anticipating that a little bribery won't go amiss here. I am certainly not above allowing a potential beauty queen from developing her full potential in a sans frock situation. If you think that I am being gauche then let me float this past you. Next time you watch Wheel of Fortune, make a mental note of the best looking babe on the show, watch her win and then ask yourself if she didn't ride Pat's shaft of fortune during rehearsals. Point taken?

Bad News.
Having far too hastily accepted the judging deal I have just been told that this a drag queen beauty competition. Dear God how on earth did I suckered into this homofest? Well I can tell you for a start there certainly will be no shenanigans going on with the judging. It's not that I am opposed to a spot of shirt tail lifting, as far as I am concerned the batty boys do me a favor by leaving more totty for us red blooded sausage bandits. Still there is something buttock clenching about deciding which amateur transvestite is the best looking.

Talking of the Wheel of Fortune have you noticed Vanna's hands? Clearly 25 years of pointless clapping have raised callouses 2 inches thick on her palms. No wonder her engagement was called off. It must be like being fondled by a Navy dockyard welder who forgot to take his gloves off.

Now I am off to stick pencils in my eyes before this line up of deviants sends me blind.

TCB

Coffee Service

At one time, when I was in the big bad corporate world, I ran a technical support team. I say with no sense of false modesty (natch) that I ran a great team. You see I had a philosophy that all products were the same no matter who you bought from, trucks, televisions, guns, whatever. All that separates companies is the quality of after sales care. Salesmen are lazy incompetent order takers that apparently avoid closing in order to focus on the big picture, usually from the confines of the golf course. Fortunately I had a boss who realized the importance of what I did and rewarded me handsomely for my efforts. I was given more money than I could spend and was allowed first dibs on the office women. All in all it was a sweet life. Now I only mention this as now I am a customer I am constantly appalled at the worthless imitation of service that most companies pretend to offer.

Case in point, last week my espresso machine gurgled, farted and then died. As you can imagine a Coffee House with no espresso is like a car with no starter, it looks the part but it ain’t gonna take you anywhere fast. So I call around the coffee companies in Bigtown. The first one I called told me “I don’t think we service espresso machines”. Well numbnuts, you either do or you don’t, thinking, in your case, doesn’t enter the equation. This went one all morning until I found someone that could speak in more than monosyllables. They agreed to take in the machine and repair it. Two days later I call then and they tell me that they don’t repair my particular model. However to make up for the inconvenience they will discount a new one from $6400 to $5000. Bastards. Needless to say I told them where they could stick their coffee machine and drove once more to Bigtown to collect mine.

During the weekend the Boss had the brilliant idea (and I wish that I could take credit for this) of calling in at another Coffee House and asking how they got their espresso machine serviced, they were happy to give her the number of a sole trader who makes his living from fixing these things. I called him up and he knew the model, the probable fault and said that he could fix it. Sadly for me he is so busy that he can’t get to us for three days, merde!

Of course the concept of poor or non-existent service trickles down through the industry. The Digital Queen of Smallville came in for her usual large skinny caramel and I was forced to turn her away empty handed. I think that the look of sadness on her face will haunt me forever. I hate to leave a good woman unsatisfied.

The Coffee Bitch

PS Just for fun, or probably out of desperation I reconnected the espresso machine and she fired up! If the DQ shows today she will be leaving with a big one in her hand, on me. Ahh Double entendres where would my life be without you.

Bertie's Revenge

Damn just as I was nodding off an outraged Bertie bludgeoned his way into the shop. He stripped off his pants and his jacket and started to hit me around the head.

"Bertie" I cried "What the hell do you think you are doing"

"I am slapping you with a suit" said Bertie

Will this day ever end?

Bertie rides again

Bertie Grabbit (Sue, Grabbit and Runne LLP) has been looking more and more morose these days. I am guessing that he is slowly coming to the realisation that the next President of the US will be either a white woman or a black man. Even Bertie, whose politics are slightly to the right of Genghis Khan, must realise that that crusty old fossil McCain isn't going anywhere especially in light of his alleged dalliances with a not unattractive lobbyist. I tell you people when they say that politics is a dirty game, they really mean politicians are dirty.



All of this has made Bertie more curmudgeonly than usual and he has taken to warning fellow customers that I will short change them. Now most of my regulars look at Bertie with a "so what's new" look on their faces. We have all come to realise that a little financial shenanigans is all part of the rich tapestry of being part of my world. Bertie also likes to ask loudly how I passed the health inspection, to which I reply, "the same way as you passed the bar exam, by writing the answers on the back of a $100 bill".



Anyway it is time to put Bertie in his place so this morning I posted the following advertisement in the Bigtown News

Coffee and Language

Winston Churchill once said that we are two nations divided by a common language and how right he was. Case in point. When we first moved to Kissbotty County I would ask refined ladies if they would like any more tea/coffee/ whatever, to which they would sometimes reply “I don’t care for any more”. Now in English “I don’t care” has a certain connotation that the original offering was not particularly acceptable. I have to confess that I spent a few weeks in a melancholia of self doubt until I realized that this was just a southern way of saying, no thank you. In similar vein, whenever I hear someone say, “Please may I have” it is like a breath of fresh air. An example of which now follows.
The Boss’s sandwiches are overfilled and generally people will request a fork. The most common form of this request is “Can I get a fork”? To which I quite often reply, “Not from me pet, I don’t do ugly chicks”.

Coffee, God and Crack Hoes

Bear with me people this is a convoluted tale but as usual I promise that every word is true.

As a prelude to this sorry tale might I respectfully ask that, if you have not already done so, you first read this tale.

In addition here is another story. Some time ago we met a nice preacher man who runs a Mission in Honduras. He sends out medical aid and imports their coffee, which he sells for them. I may have actually blogged this in the past but to be frank I cannot remember what I was doing yesterday, let alone last year. The faithful reader will recall that the big guy upstairs and I do not converse much these days. I can’t remember what the spat was about but in the finest traditions of grudge bearing nothing gets forgiven until I get an apology. (Is it sacrilegious to expect God to apologize). Anyway, just to show what a great guy I am, we bought 30 pounds of coffee and that was my olive branch, so don’t keep me hanging for my apology.

And now for today’s story

We have, over the ages, developed a fine and wholly justified reputation for our coffees. There is no great secret one just has to buy good quality beans, store them sympathetically and grind them fresh. Water at 195 degrees and toss whatever you haven’t sold in 2 hours, my coffee has a short but happy life.

Last week two of the nastiest, skankiest crack hoes that you have even seen slithered into the shop. This in itself is unusual as despite the fact that we are situated next to the Court House and, ergo, the jail all of our customers are jolly decent sorts. Even the trustee is the sort of guy that you would want to work on your house and trust to wander around when you weren’t there. So the skanks (and using the term skanks is very, very generous) order two coffees and to make a not too subtle point I serve them in to go cups. They search through assorted bags and sacks in order to come up with the necessary $2.74 and pay me in torn bills and pennies. One of the trollops sucks on her coffee and declares that this is dishwater and says hello, where is the caffeine. As you can imagine I was outraged and looked skank 2 in the eye and say “That is the house blend, if you are not happy I will gladly refund your money”. The skanks keep the coffee and I follow them out with a mop as I Clorox a trail of bodily fluids from the counter to the door.

Well after a few minutes of muttering and stomping about I tried the coffee and it was garbage. Nasty, thin, watery dishwater unfit for human consumption or come to it, skank consumption.

Talk about no good deed going unpunished, bloody Hondurans and their crap coffee. I tell you people, you try to do the third world a favor and all the thanks you get is to be scorned by skanks.

Thank you God, thank you so bloody much.

Coffee and Tea

We have started to develop a well earned reputation for our afternoon cream teas and I am good with that as I see it as part of my mission to wean the ladies of Smalltown off the shine and onto more esoteric pastimes.

So yesterday we had the ladies of the Smalltown book club in, and before you say anything nasty, yes they were real books not coloring books. I normally give a little spiel on how cream teas work and why the term high tea is incorrect. I then end be telling them that it is their tea and they can do whatever they please. Well as you might imagine I don’t mean it, I mean you will do what I say as when it comes to tea I am omnipotent. Still someone had the audacity to ruin the ambiance by telling me that she didn’t like tea and wanted de-caffeinated coffee. For a moment I thought about asking them all to leave but to be frank I needed to money (and I have discovered that cream tea participants tip generously).

So the greedy old luddite had two refills and then redeemed herself when she announced to the crowd that this was the best coffee that she had ever had in her life. I was just about to forgive her gaucheness when she said, yes much better than Starbucks. Starbucks!

Well excuse me but isn’t this rather like telling the Dean of Harvard that his school is much better than the Smalltown Community College and Tire Service?

Talk about the good Lord giving and taking away.

Coffee and Monks

As I have mentioned in the past, Smalltown is the buckle on the Bible belt. Today I saw something that I had never seen before and to be honest did not realize even existed in this part of the world. Two Franciscan monks came in for coffee. I was naturally curious as to their lifestyle so I set up a conversation. After they left I could not but help to reflect on the fact that if they really did want a life of celibacy and emotional isolation they should probably move to Chateau Coffee. At least it would be more comfortable and they could use the internet to download copious amounts of Japanese scat porn.

Coffee and Ribons

Ah Valentine's Day. Can there be a more romantic time of the year? You would think that tying a big red ribbon around the old johnston and hanging around with a unwrap me look would never get old but it seems like the magic may be fading a touch. The Boss didn't look to impressed this year, well I suppose it was a very cold morning.

I tell you, I will never understand women.

Coffee and the Tree Rat

This blog comes under the realms of the "you couldn't make this stuff up" category, but I swear it is all true.

I was arranging with a friend to organize a squirrel hunt. The deal is that we will hopefully bag a mess of squirrel and the womenfolk (as we call them in Ol' Virginny) will cook up a stew or something. (Those of you who read my blogs on my turkey hunting experiences will understand the hopefully in the previous sentence). Now I was under the impression that squirrel is vermin and as such there is no season, which caused some dissent amongst the group. A quick peruse around the internet proved me wrong and established that for reasons that I cannot comprehend you cannot shoot a squirrel (aka tree rat) outside September 1 to January 31, so we missed it by days.

I was wondering if I was going to be sufficiently gastronomic to eat the little critter (I know the Boss won't) when the following ensued.

A stranger joined in the conversation and although agreeing that the season started on September 1st, mentioned that folk in this area regard the best eating to be had in August and that no one would care too much if one was to start huntin' a little early. Well he seemed to know what the score was so I asked him what the eating was like. He told me that it was like a delicate chicken or perhaps frogs legs. This kind of blew me away, who would have thought that Smalltownians would be connoisseurs of frog’s legs. Then he let us know that his Grandma had eaten squirrel all her life and that she regarded the best part as the brain!

To think that I was feeling squeamish about eating the thigh.

Well it’s Friday and tonight I shall be slipping into the arms of Bacchus on a river of Grolsch courtesy of,

a) Hemmer, Rhoyd and Piles LLP who tipped me out an astonishing $100 on a catering order
b) The scumbags of Kissbotty County (we got the jury lunch order)
c) The Smalltown Development Authority who asked us to cater their meeting today.

God Bless you one and all.

Coffee and Floods

I don’t actually need reminding but nevertheless I am regularly reminded that here in Smalltown we are indeed the buckle on the Bible belt.

I was having a slow morning so I thought that I would engage a passing customer in conversation. We chatted amiably about politics, sport and world economics and he had some fair and balanced points. Then we got onto glabal warming and he told me that as a Christian he didn’t believe in it. Apparently God has made a promise never to flood land again so if global warming is going to cause the water to rise, it must be just a myth.
Wow am I glad we cleared that up.

As a postscript another customer was wondering why people bothered to ask God to relieve their suffering. After all he cocked a deaf ear to 6 million Jews. Now I really don’t know what to believe.

Coffee and Hugs

A lawyer from Bigtown, who I shall call Ron, is a fairly frequent visitor. Now as happens it seems like everyone arrives together and then decides to leave together. So Ron is at the end of a line of people who not only want to pay but entertain me with stories about their lives. Ron, clearly late for court, is hopping from foot to foot and eventually jumps the queue, slaps a $10 on the counter and says “Gotta run, this should cover it”. Well as soon as the words were out of his mouth he spots the Boss coming out of the kitchen and decides that his lunch merited a hug.

There is a fine dividing line between a hug and foreplay and to be honest I think that Ron crossed it in the first 60 seconds. I don’t know what to be more pissed about.

a) Ron copped a free feel
b) The Boss was clearly up for it.
c) When I finally cashed him out he had left me a 49-cent tip.

I wouldn’t mind him tweaking the old funbags but honestly 49 cents. Talk about it never rains.

Coffee and the Texas Ranger

We have a customer, Albert, who I appreciate above all others. The reason for my undying devotion is that for some bizarre reason Albert always tips me a twenty. Cup of tea and a scone; a twenty. Lunch for Albert and Missus; a twenty. Now what’s not to love about that?

So purely by coincidence Albert is in line to pay and right behind him is Bertie Grabbit (Sue, Grabbit and Runne LLP). Well before I had even rung up Albert’s tab he drops a twenty in the old pickle jar. Bertie spots the tip and naturally (being an attorney) assumes that a mistake has been made. His jaw drops and I see him draw breath as if to speak. Nimbly vaulting the counter I casually fell Bertie with a roundhouse karate kick to the throat before hopping back over the counter and thanking Albert for his largesse.

I have learned so much from watching Chuck Norris as Walker, Texas Ranger.

Swipe here -> Chuck Norris is always there even when you can't see him. <-

TCB

Coffee and the filthy hacks

What the intercourse is it about journalists? I presume that when they are out on assignment (and for that matter when they are in the bar) they are on expenses so why are they cheap skating me, the bastards? Here are two absolute gospel true stories to prove my point.

For quite a while the journo who covers this area for the Bigtown Gazzette used to sneak into the Coffee House to use the wifi in order to email her story tissue of lies back to base. When my back was turned she would then sneak out without ordering anything. Well I got wise to this little ruse and as soon as she came in I would give her a menu and as what she wanted. Her tactic would be to start with a glass of water, file her story and then when my back was turned, well you can guess the rest. Not only do I expect to be paid I also expect to be lavishly tipped out as well. I certainly don’t expect the royal shaft.

Yesterday (and this is still making my blood boil) some girly hack from the Smalltown News and Post came in with some other silly bint that she was clearly interviewing for a story. I asked them what they needed and she replied, “Nothing thanks”. The audacity of using my Coffee House as a free meeting place was so astounding that despite every fiber of my being urging me to drag her out of the door by her pubes I simply walked away.

After conferring with the Boss, if she tries that shit again I will ask her not to disturb me at work; after all I don’t go to the bus depot and interrupt you blowing vagrants.I don’t know what they teach these people at Journo School but by the Christ they have balls of steel.

Coffee and Guns (again)

One of my favorite customers who should remain anonymous (screw that, it was DQ) came in for a bowl of soup. Her bill rang up at $3.57 and as she looked at the display on the register she muttered "That's what I need". Well ever one to pry into someone else's business I asked if she meant a Magnum 357. Cutting a long story short we then had a philosophical discussion on the relative merits of the 38P+ and the Magnum 357 rounds, and the bad day she was having.

As she left I could not help but to reflect on the fact that if you piss of a Yankee woman she will whine and bitch and have a hissy fit and generally make your life hell. Piss off a Kissbotty County woman and she just picks up her 357.

I tell you people I am never leaving Kissbotty.

Coffee and Hiatus

Good Lord, I'm back. Did you miss me? I missed you (natch, otherwise why would I be blogging)?

I would love to be able to tell you some fantastic stories that explain my absence. You know, an inoperable brain tumor that was miraculously fixed by a blind neurosurgeon from Chicago that operates (pun intended) pro bono because he loves the blog. Or perhaps a deep undercover mission to stop the Moooslim hoards jacking our precious right to rape the world of its natural resources. Sadly none of that would be true and as you know my stories are all kosher. The simple truth is that I just got bored and now I am not bored, just boring.

Despite the lack of a blog, all my chums kept turning up, Bertie, Judge Mental, the DQ and every day they do something to amuse me.

So here we go, pen akimbo and wating for today's hilarity