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

Coffee and more bad news

It really is a funny old world. Just this morning I received some very bad news from Bertie. According to the so-called DNA expert, the unfortunate incident that occurred whilst I was watching the Anna Nicole Show some two years ago, could not possibly have resulted in the impregnation of said Ms. Smith. What a blow. I cannot but help notice that they were not so quick to reject the claim of that crusty old fossil once married to ZaZa Gabor. Once again we see one rule for the rich and another for the poor.

Still by way of consolation I see that my favorite squeeze, Britney is back on the market. I know that she is a bit wacko but I think her new look makes her real hot. At least the drapes now match the carpet and I am here to tell you that you can’t say that about too many Kissbotty County women.

Talking of Kissbotty folk, quite a few have asked me what the deal was with Coffee and Kangaroos. I presume that they ask because they don’t know the answer. In similar vein no one in Kissbotty asked about Ms. Whiplash’s trombone. I presume that is because they DO know the answer. You've got to love living here.

As I said it’s a funny old world.

TCB

Coffee and Hell's Bankers

Today’s rant concerns the antics of Branch, Banking and Trust (BB&T). When we first arrived in the land of opportunity one of the first things that we had to do was open a bank account. Purely by an act of good fortune we stumbled across First Virginia Bank. These were wonderful people. Apart from offering first class service with a smile we got to know them all by their first names and they treated the Boss and I like old friends. Well they say that all good things come to an end and thus it came to pass that First Virginia was bought out by BB&T. Within months the Manager left, followed by the assistant Manager and then most of the staff. Now as an immigrant myself I don’t have a racist chromosome in my body but if you are employing people to deal with the public then it is my guess that they should have a reasonable command of the language. BB&T didn’t get the point and it soon became impossible to speak to anyone on the telephone. (Yes I accept it may have been my fault for having an English accent). Then strange charges started to appear. My favorite was a $10 deduction every month. This apparently was our fault, as we had not given First Virginia our social security numbers when we opened the account. Now BB&T were being fined by some regulatory authority and rather than tell us, they just tacked the charges onto our account. It goes without saying that, despite giving BB&T everything that they asked for, this charge came and went over the next year. By the way if you have ever tried to open a bank account without a social security number you will know what a cartload of BS this was. About this time we were making up our own words for the initials BB&T, my favorite being Ball Busters and Thieves.

When we moved to Kissbotty County we decided that we should change banks and say goodbye to BB&T forever. I wrote out a check on the old BB&T account that left just $3 in the account so that if they gave me a hard time about closing it I could just walk away. Well I did not count on the avarice of the scumbags from Charlotte. Before I could close the account they hit me with a $10 handling fee (they had never pulled this stunt before). Now the account is $7 overdrawn so the hit me with an unauthorized overdraft fee of $35. They then write to me to let me know and charge $35 for the letter. Then some other BS and before I can blink I am being threatened over a “debt” of $99. Apparently if I do not submit to their extortion I will be reported to some credit agency and my life will be over. Well I say bring it on BB&T. I shall be instructing Bertie Grabbit (Sue, Grabbit and Runne LLP) to issue writ (or whatever you colonials do) for mental anguish, tortuous interference with business, habeas corpus, Flagrante delicto and whatever Bertie can pull out of his hat. Of course this suit will be on the back burner until Bertie has successfully brought to fruition my paternity claim in the case of Anna Nicole Smith’s baby.

In the meantime might I suggest that any of you unfortunate to “bank” with BB&T that you seek alternative bankers? I heartily endorse the great folks at Coffee House Banking in Smallville in fact I left a small deposit there just last night.

TCB
PS FOTL1 tells me that she had a similar experience. She had a redundant BB&T account with $11.29. BB&T decided to clean her out and call it a closing fee. Scumbags!

Coffee and the Sprog

The Boss has asked me to point out that on February 23rd 1985 she was delivered of a gift from heaven aka Fruit of the Loin 2. She did NOT “drop a sprog”. Oh well at least we are talking, sort of, again.

Coffee and (no) love

So it’s Friday night and I thought that I might be able to get my sentence reduced. Well as I am sure you know we have no parole in Virginia and as we say here if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime. Sadly it looks like there is no parole in the Boss’s heart either so it is another 7 nights in the small house (tool shed) for me. Actually things have gone from bad to worse. Today I was presented with a salmon pink envelope inscribed with the initials CB. “What is this, my dewy cheeked English rose” I ask. With steel in her voice and ice in her heart she replies “Happy anniversary CB”. There then followed a rip in the time space continuum. A few seconds that saw my life flash before me. A time when my normally clenched and rigid colon turned to water and all I could say was “aye aye err aye”. To make matters worse 22 years ago the Boss managed to drop a sprog. Yes indeed it is also FOTL2’s birthday as well. Normally the Boss takes care of this but this year the card read “Happy Birthday from Mummy and no one else”. Not only did I not get parole, my love life is now officially on death row.

As if my life could not get any worse my little Canadian friend GenBen is still firmly north of the border (is that a double entendre? I do hope so) and DQ has disappeared into the Carolinas ostensibly on some sort of education thingy. Fortunately Ms. Rita Whiplash has a number that I cannot forget. 1-900 SPA-KNME. It looks like tonight I shall have to let my fingers do the walking or as we say in Quebec “Je suis dans merde creek sans le paddle”.

TCB

Coffee and the Cold

I tell you people I work for a slave driver. I told her this morning that I couldn’t go to work today as I was suffering from anal glaucoma. “Anal Glaucoma” she said “what’s that?” “Well” I replied, “it’s when I just can’t see myself hauling my ass to work”. Today I am cleaning U bends with my toothbrush.

Actually the real reason for not wanting to get out of bed is that it is too damn cold. You always know when it is really cold here as the Smalltown lawyers have their hands in their own pockets.

Oh I slay me, I really do.
TCB

Coffee and Kangaroos*

One of our regular couples, who are both in their mid eighties, came in for breakfast today. They are immigrants from New York and he used to be in the scrap metal business. If you have ever seen the Sopranos you will know where I am going with this. When we are quiet we will sit with “Don” and his lady and chat as they have their coffee. Today Don left us for a short while in order to renew his CCP. For those of you unfortunate enough to live in a State that spits on the second amendment allow me to explain. Here in God’s own State we can openly carry a gun, with a few exceptions, pretty much anywhere. Now if you want to, you can also take a short training course and then apply for a concealed carry permit (CCP). Virginia is a “shall issue” state, which means that unless there is a reason not to do so you will be issued with a CCP. It goes without saying that the Bitch and FOTL1 are both CCP carriers.

Whilst we are sipping on our Kopi Luwak Don returns in high dudgeon. His renewal has been rejected as he had forgotten to mention a minor conviction on his record. It transpires that 20 years ago a couple of scumbags tried to break into his yard and he beat the living snot out of them. As he is telling the tale I started to do the math. 85 years old now, 20 years ago equals 65. Damn he was 65 and he kicked the crap out of two burglars, sweet. Well the father of one of them decided to take Don to court as the kid had lost a couple of teeth. On the steps of the courthouse the father who had a gold front tooth made the mistake of taunting Don. Don replied taking a pop at the old man in order to collect some gold for later. From then on the story went down hill rapidly. As he is telling this story you could see his eyes turning that flint grey color and I thought that even at 85 this was one old man that you would not want to cross.

Here are a couple of epilogs to this tale. The first is that a week after the court deal (after which Don had to pay $290 restitution) the little thug turned up again and from the safety of the other side of the fence told Don that he was going to wait until Don got old so he come back and whip his ass, can you imagine waiting for a 65 year-old to get old? As it happened he never did whip Don’s ass and 20 years later the two are good friends. The second is that Don, who is well retired, misses the old business and wants to start a scrap yard. He has asked me to consider going into business with him. It occurs to me that the Boss and Mrs Don could run the Coffee House which would free me up to take up a new career busting heads. Of course no one is going to respect someone called Coffee Bitch but “Il Patroni” has a nice ring about it, don’t you agree?

Onwards and Upwards
TCB

* OK so a free Latte to the first person to understand the title of this blog. DQ, you are way too smart so don’t even think about trying.

Coffee and Home (alone)

Home at last, home at last. Thank God almighty I’m home at last. Yes indeedy I am safely ensconced back in Chateau Coffee.

Well that was a horrid touchy feely weekend of getting to grips with our inner beings. I am not sure if it achieved anything but there were one or two amusing moments. Brad or Brett or whatever his name was (and I never really took part in any of this, courtesy of my travel bong) apparently suggested that we should all look deep within ourselves. Well some silly bint from up north, probably a lawyer from Fairfax County if I’m any judge, took him way too literally. The daft slapper tied a mirror to a stick, looked deep within herself and found two rings and a Rolex. I haven’t laughed so much since my mother (may she rest in her quicklime) caught her left breast in the mangle.
Still as a bonus to you dear reader I am going to share the wealth and the only thing that I picked up this weekend.

Apparently in order for me to get in touch with the Boss’s inner woman I have to;
Wine her,
dine her,
call her,
hug her,
hold her,
surprise her,
compliment her,
smile at her,
laugh with her,
cry with her,
cuddle with her,
shop with her,
give her jewelry,
buy her flowers,
hold her hand,
write love letters to her,
and go the end of the earth and back again for her.

Just for the record for any woman to get in touch with my inner man she has to;
Show up naked.
Bring beer.

Well I shall not be working or blogging tomorrow so you are on your own. President’s Day has me moving my beer fridge and bong into the tool shed. I think that if I move the lawn tractor out and an airbed, duvet, personal DVD thingy and my vast collection of smut in, I shall be in good order. What is more, oh joy of joys, it turns out that Ms Whiplash makes house calls. I wonder if the sound of music can be heard from the “guest cottage” out by the road. If not I shall invite Ms Whiplash to bring her trombone. Apparently it is a bit rusty but I don’t see why that should bother me any. As long as the POA Nazis do not discover that I have turned my “illegal” tool shed into an “illegal” guest cottage I shall be in fine fettle for the rest of the winter.

Testosterone rules baby
TCB

Coffee and Feelings

Since I blogged Coffee and Hearts the Boss has been more than a touch testy. In an attempt to restore the old joie de vie she suggested, nay demanded, that we attend one of those relationship weekend seminars. If you have ever had the misfortune to do one of these things you will already know what a miserable orgy of humiliation and self-deprecation it all is. Anticipating the worst I had the good sense to pack an ounce of Morocco black for the trip and just before we started, spliffed up. As expected Brad or Bruce or Bryan or whatever his name was droned on and on and on about being in touch with our partners feelings and blah blah blah. After what seemed like a lifetime of soul searching I finally returned to planet misery as he started a little exercise to prove one of his many points. “ OK CB what is the Boss’s favorite flower?” he asked. Oh thank you Jesus I know the answer to this one. “I do believe that it is self raising” I replied with a happy smile.

Apparently I am spending the next 14 nights in the tool shed.

Coffee and Health

When I was running my little medical outfit up north one of our greatest expenses was health insurance. Admittedly we had a great plan but it soon got out of hand and we were paying $1500 per employee per month. I managed to find a more reasonable plan but over the last few years that too crept up in price until we were once again paying over $1000 per employee. Now you can surely imagine that these sorts of prices are way beyond the means of the Smalltown Coffee House so we have recently joined the millions of Americans with fake medical cards and ID. I know that I mustn’t rag on at my adopted country but really people you have seriously screwed up this healthcare business. There are some very simple solutions to this mess but none will work until you make it illegal to bribe politicians. (Yes I know that it is called lobbying but it is illegal in pretty much every civilized nation). As I am seriously at risk of becoming tiresome here I will stop now and simply proffer this paragraph as a prelude to the following true story.

Here in Smalltown we have quite a decent sized hospital, which is part of a large chain (if that is the correct term) spread across southern Virginia. Recently they appointed a new administrator and he is now a regular customer of ours. He is actually quite a decent chap and is slowly crossing the shell hole filled no-mans land between customer and friend. Jim came in for lunch yesterday, looking like the world had just fallen out of his bottom. Instead of the usual hi test coffee and chili he ordered the veggy surprise and water. Ever one to cheer my fellow man I enquired as to what was happening. It turns out that his cholesterol is through the roof, he has some other issues and basically life now revolves around no alcohol or any food that involves taste, aka not worth living. In an attempt to make lemonade out of lemons I mentioned that at least he was assured of the finest medical attention for free. Looking sadder than a one legged man at an ass kicking contest he replied,”Not really, most of my meds are not covered and I am $450 a month out of pocket”. Isn’t that crazy? The Chief Executive of Smalltown’s Hospital has a crappy health plan, I am outraged. Why are you people not self-insured? Actually I should explain the true cause of my outrage. You see my secret health plan was to offer Jim a free cup of coffee and then ask if he could get my bum grapes done on the DL. Clearly if these people don’t look after their own I am going to have to stick with my rubber ring cushion.

As I said at the beginning you have seriously screwed up this healthcare business.

TCB

Coffee and Sponsorship

Samlltown’s Scout Leader, Lawson D Woods called in this week. Half way through his Café Noir and petite fours he casually mentioned that $250 would sponsor a boy scout. On reflection my response of “WTF you must be different planet buster” was hardly appropriate. I therefore went on to explain that if “sponsoring” is a synonym for paying money to keep little mouths shut then I am currently “sponsoring” two girl guides and let me tell you that those painted jezebels are bleeding me white. Lawson quickly left with a disgusted look and a failure to tip. I am guessing that he is losing his mind as once again he has forgotten my name although why he would call me Mr. P D O’File is a mystery.

Still this talk of sponsorship has given me an idea. I wonder if I could sponsor an attorney or two in the District Court. Nothing too crass, perhaps a button that flashed up a subliminal message “Call a recess, send the jury to the Coffee House”. The more I think about this the more it sounds like it could work. My first thought was to offer the job to Bertie Grabbit but I think that he is too honest for my shenanigans. Yes I know, “honest attorney”, that must be the biggest oxymoron ever (just ahead of American Healthcare and British Cuisine). Still (Simple) Simon Hemmer (Hemmer Rhoyd and Piles LLP) is up for anything as long as it involves an Alexander or two so he is my man. I shall let you know how it goes down.

Habeas Corpus baby.
TCB

Coffee and Hearts

Contrary to the ugly rumor that is being spread (by guess who) I did not actually forget Valentine’s Day. For years I have heard the expression “It’s the thought that counts” and I thought, “Oh sod it, I just can’t be bothered”. Subsequently I came to realize that this was not the best tactic in my attempts to get the Boss to lift her moratorium on the horizontal rumba.

I tell you if it wasn’t for Smalltown’s Mistress of the Night, Ms. Rita Whiplash, I would be stuck in front of American Idol with the rest of you party animals.

Mercy mistress. mercy
TCB

Coffee and (un)Happiness

Things that make me unhappy.

Kissbotty County weather. Last week we were promised a big old snow storm, we got a few flakes. This week we had an ice storm warning, it got a touch chilly. I am so disappointed. What is going on? As I write this, the mutual scrote scratchers, Dick ‘n’ Ed at Kissbotty Radio (home to all the hits) are once again announcing “Kissbotty County Schools code red five”. This means I am off to Applebees to spout some Faust and see if I can get the English teacher to bend over. Whatever, bring on the weather I have a four-wheel drive to check out. Damn this global warming.

Dish Satellite Network. The list of Dish’s crimes defies belief so forgive me if I miss a few salient points. For a start that advert that hooked me clearly stated $29.99 per month. It did not say that $29.99 is a teaser, which lasts for 10 months, but you have to sign an 18-month contract. They also fail to mention that $29.99 does not include the decoders that you need to rent at $5 per month each. Free professional installation only includes connection to an existing cable socket. If you want a television in your kitchen and the kitchen is not wired then it ain’t gonna happen baby. I wonder what amateur installation would be. I have a vision of the dish man throwing the decoder through a window and driving off. Of course the irrevocable 18-month contract does not prevent Dish from upping the rates, and this they have done. I am expected to be placated by the fact that I now subscribe to America’s Top 250 (as opposed to America’s Top 180). This does not mean I get another 70 channels, I guess Dish just pulled another number out of the air. If what I get is America’s Top anything, you people are in serious trouble here. By the way, removing Court TV from the line up and then turning it back on does not constitute another channel. I just wish I were smart enough to know if the knock-off decoders on ebay actually work.

Things that make me happy

Heated leather seats. For someone who never successfully navigated the anal stage of psychosexual development, that lovely warm feeling down below is so reminiscent of a potty training failure. I think I am going to drive all day.

Beep beep
TCB

Coffee and Drugs

I love pharmaceutical reps, they have a rotten job and I don’t think that anyone could argue that they are not on the bottom rung of the sales ladder. Much of their sales technique revolves around bribing doctors and this is where I come in. Quite often a booted and suited rep (and in these cases rep is short for reptile) will come in and order 18 bagels and gallons of coffee and so on. They also like to leave me little tokens of their appreciation of my overt manliness and that is why I have a collection of a gross or two of ballpoints and other trinkets. So it came to pass that I found myself using a pen advertising Lovenox. Yes indeed Lovenox. Now is it just me or does Lovenox sound like an STD. “Sorry Pet I don’t think that I can tonight, my Lovenox has flared up again”.
Intrigued I hooked up to their website and apparently Lovenox is nothing to do with the galloping knob rot but rather a deep vein thrombosis medication, who would have guessed.

On the website there is a quiz to assess your risk of a DVT so I thought that I would give it a go. Of course I lied about my physical condition (just like I do when filling in those dating site questionnaires). So having told Lovenox that I have a body mass index of 2.0 (whatever that means), I run 2 marathons a week, have a pulse rate of 40 bpm and unfeasibly large genitalia, Lovenox determines that I AM at risk of a DVT, the lying scumbags.

Actually I could never trust a drug company whose website shows such a lack of quality control. Apparently there is a medical condition called a hearth attack. I suppose this happens when you are all fired up and feeling grate.

Now I think I can spot a rep on the horizon so I need to water down the coffee and rub some Nivea Intensive Care Lotion onto my Lovenox.
TCB

Coffee and Tuna

So it’s Monday lunchtime and some complete knuckle shuffler has the audacity to ask me if the tuna salad was fresh. I instantly replied that indeed it was not, in fact it was made last week and we left it hanging around all weekend. He looked at me waiting for the rebuttal and when it didn’t come, asked if I was messing with him. No I reply these Virginia winters are great as we can just leave this stuff outside the backdoor and it keeps pretty fresh for weeks. I guess that he didn’t believe me as he ordered the tuna and left quite a decent tip.

Now I have to nip out back and rescue the tuna from the jaws of a marauding possum.

Toodle Pip.

TCB
PS I later realized that he wasn’t being a jerk, he probably had an inoperable brain tuna.

Coffee and Snow

Well that was another hideously dull day. For a while I thought that I wasn’t going to have any customers and this I blame on the weather. There is not too much to recommend Fairfax County but at least they can manage to conduct business when it snows. Here in Kissbotty the merest hint of a snowflake closes the schools for a week and we all grind to a halt. I am guessing that when the snots are off school parents have to baby-sit and therefore don’t go to work. This means that they don’t buy coffee and they don’t go out for lunch. One of the school administrators came in (at about 11:30, in jeans and looking very smug) and told me that the closures are due to the fact that Kissbotty County does not want kids hanging around bus stops in the cold. Well people let me tell you when I was a boy we didn’t have school busses, I walked three miles every day and what is more it was uphill in both directions. We were so poor that my parents bought my clothes from the local Army surplus store. Can you imagine the shame of walking to school dressed as a Japanese Admiral? By the way these closures are announced by the impossibly perky Dick and Ed on Kissbotty radio (home of all the hits) and they are punctuated by strange statements such as “Kissbotty County code green four”. These statements are actually the secret code for which bar the teachers will meet up at for a lunchtime alcohol and weed fuelled orgy of lust and depravity.

Anyway it really is too much to expect me to sit here and twiddle my thumbs. I swear to God if it wasn’t for the DQ and the fishing waders (I never tire of that) and my old mate the mountain man I would have gone gaga today. Yes indeed the mountain man returned today with his dear old Mother (or Mama as we say in the south). The poor old girl isn’t too good these days and has had quite a few falls, probably shine induced if I am any judge. To prove the point she shuffled off to give the Boss a hug (which let me off the hook), tripped over her own feet and launched herself across the shop. Fortunately the Boss was there to catch her, and it was fortunate as if I had been there I would have deftly side stepped and granny would have been toast. Ladies if you want to throw yourself into this Bitch’s arms you need to be wearing a school uniform. Sadly Granny is looking a little frail these days and I rather fear for her marbles. She and the man mountain were the only ones in the shop when she asked if I knew the person in the corner. After a few moments of MM and I shrugging shoulders and rolling our eyes MM pointed out that she was actually looking at my reflection in the mirror. Without missing a beat she said that we looked so alike he could be my brother. And so the world turns.

Ever one to utilize my copious quantities of spare time I checked out the BBC news to find out how the Champagne Socialists are ruining England. I spotted that back in the UK 160,000 turkeys have been slaughtered due to an outbreak of bird flu. It seems to me that the World Health Organization have seriously dropped the ball on this important issue. If we all put some non-drowsy formula Day Quil in our birdbaths I am sure that the problem will be solved. Of course it goes without saying that we will also need to use some Night Quil for the owls.

Also back in the UK I see that Sir Paul McCartney is having troubles with his divorce. Perhaps he should try to put his current predicament into perspective. In olden days, if you were unfortunate enough to be robbed by an omniped, it would almost certainly be a pirate. At least he's going to come out of this alive.

Talking of pirates I see that video piracy is now so prevalent in the UK that they now have their own rating; it is of course, AAARRRRRR

From the local news pages I see that a nasty tornado passed through Florida last week. Now a Florida tornado and a Smalltown divorce have something in common. In both cases someone is about to lose a trailer.

Finally here is some driving advice for the elderly in Smalltown. Pressing the pedal on your right will make your car go a little faster. Forget all that rubbish about suffocating at speeds above 15mph, it was all a myth.

VAROOOM
TCB

Coffee and the Dream

Have you ever had that dream where you are at work and you suddenly realize that you are naked? I did last weekend and it wasn’t a dream. Here is how it went down.

Every fourth Saturday we open the Coffee House for a Ladies Church group, they are a charming bunch and we enjoy looking after them. At about 10:30 they are all done and they wander off to spread the word or whatever. As we were already in town we decided to indulge in a spot of shopping. During the week I had seen that Smalltown’s Gun, Live Bait and Pawn Store was closing down. Now for the longest time I have been itching to own a side lever percussion cap black powder 50-caliber mountain rifle (I only mention the details in case any of my vast army of readers feels the need to get me a Valentine’s Day present). So the Boss and I were in the store only to find that the vultures had pretty much cleaned the place out. I wandered around aimlessly in my white shirt and black pants feeling, for some unknown reason, just a little uneasy. I could hear a faint murmur and could not help but to think I was the subject of the whispers. Then it hit me. Oh dear God I was the only one in there not wearing camouflage. Never have I felt more emasculated, I was naked amongst real men. There was only one thing to do and that was run. To add insult to injury the only vehicle outside that wasn’t a pickup was our company mini van. I am going to have to leave town.

Addendum One

To cheer me up the Boss took me to the Walmarts to get some beer. There we were at 11:30 with just a case of long necks in the cart when we bumped into one of the Ladies of the church group. I looked at her, the cart and then the Boss and blurted out “That’s her breakfast in the cart” She looked at me, smiled and replied, “That’s OK, I might be a Christian but I ain’t no saint”. Now that my friends is a God botherer that I could live with.

Addendum Two.

It transpires that the Smalltown Gun, Live Bait and Pawn Store is closing down due to the harassment of the New York District Attorney. Allegedly some guns that originally came from the store ended up in the hands of New York scumbags (who I believe make up the greater percentage of the population). I cannot imagine that New York miscreants travel all the way to south Virginia to buy guns so this persecution of Virginia tradesmen seems somewhat convoluted. As I recall the war of northern aggression was caused by the north interfering with the commerce of the south. It seems like these people never learn, perhaps they will soon come realize that that spot of unpleasantness at the Appomattox Court House was simply the longest cease fire in the history of the CSA. New Yorkers also need to realize that guns don’t kill people, people kill people. (Although I admit, pointing your finger and shouting bang, bang does not have the same effect).

Well that’s enough ranting as I seem to have got of the point a touch. Here is a little situation for you to work on and determine your stand on the second amendment.

You're walking through a scummy area of New York City (that is to say almost anywhere) with your wife and two small children. Suddenly, a dangerous looking man with a huge knife comes around the corner and is running at you while screaming obscenities. In your pocket is a Glock 30 and you are an expert shot. You have mere seconds before he reaches you and your family. What do you do?

New York Answer:
Well, that's not enough information to answer the question! Does the man look poor or oppressed? Have I ever done anything to him that is inspiring him to attack? Could we run away? What does my wife think? What about the kids? Could I possibly swing the gun like a club and knock the knife out of his hand? What does the law say about this situation? Is it possible he'd be happy with just killing me? Does he definitely want to kill me or would he just be content to wound me? If I were to grab his knees and hold on, could my family get away while he was stabbing me? This is all so confusing! I need to debate this with some friends for a few days to try to come to a conclusion.

Virginia Answer:
BANG!

Coffee Bitch's Answer:
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! Click Drop the clip, reload
Boss: "CB, he looks like he's still moving, what do you kids think?"
FOTL1: "The Boss is right CB, I saw it too..." BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
FOTL2: "Nice grouping CB!"

Coffee and Erotica

I have to confess that things have been a little slow on the lovin’ front of late. I have a bad feeling that I might have breeched a confidence when I blogged the Rodeo position last week. Anyway for whatever reason I have had to hang up the spurs for a while. Now it is scientifically proven that when one is getting plenty of humpty dumpty, one emits pheromones that makes one more attractive to the opposite sex and the end result is that one becomes mentally, physically and emotionally drained. Conversely (and nature can be horribly cruel in this regard) when you are getting none, you get even less. So amidst the barren desert that is currently my love life, two little pieces of erotica wandered in and I thought that, in the absence of anything more physical to do, I would share them with you.

The first incident involved the Digital Queen of Smallville who popped in for lunch. I don’t know if it was my hangdog expression or the complete lack of pheromones but for some reason she decided to taunt me with the details of her workout. Apparently she does something called “quiverless buns” or something. This workout is so demanding that she can hardly move the next day. So she is giving me all the details involving squats and lunges and weights as well as rivulets of perspiration running down hidden crevices. (On reflection I may have imagined the sweat, but you get the point). Tomorrow I shall call her trainer and find out when her next session is and when she is too tired to get away I shall pounce. Then we will see who has quiverless buns. In the meantime I shall content myself with continuing to check her out as she leaves, and that my friends is probably the closest I shall get to getting some ass for the next few weeks.

Erotica part II. Here in Kissbotty County one has to hauls one’s own trash. So I was at the dumpster when I spotted a fair looking woman off loading her crap. She was kind of big boned in a muscular country way, wearing tight jeans and a tighter top. She had that dirty blond hair style and as she climbed onto the bed of her truck her top rode up to reveal one of those slutty tattoos across the small of her back. Her body language basically radiated the message “Yes I do, and what is more I am very good at it”. As I limped my way to the dumpster I swear to God she smiled and winked at me. Having set the scene here comes the erotica. She was driving a Ram 2500 Diesel Laramie package with a 9-inch lift, 20-inch chromes and Pirelli slicks. And if that doesn’t give you a chubby then you must be one of those Californian pansies that drive a Honda Hybrid.

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.

TCB