The Bitch bitches (again)

Ignoring wiser council I decided to get a fifth opinion on this turkey hunting business. As an experiment I also decided to see what getting out of bed at 5:00 would be like after guzzling a bottle of Chianti the night before. As experiments go it was probably not my finest hour but, as I am sure you will agree, unless you try these things you will never know. So once again I climbed the north face of the Eiger but this time with a pounding head and little black dots floating in my eyes (where do those dots come from)? Yet again the wily bird evaded us and this time even Tonto gave up so I was back at Chateau Coffee (sans le meat) by 11:00. The good news is that turkey season is now over and the next item on the agenda is Dove. The even better news is that one cannot hunt Dove before 12:00, finally I shall be both hunting and lying in my pit; bonus! Because it was such a nice afternoon (and not as the Boss pointlessly suggested because I was hung-over) we spent the afternoon hanging out on the deck. Of course ever silver lining has a cloud and my Saturday afternoon sloth meant that we had to do the Sam’s Club run on Sunday. Don’t ever be tempted to do this folks; the Sunday crowd is even scummier than the Saturday crowd, I expect the regular dross are in Church leaving the dregs of the dross to bother me.

Note to Sam Walton. If you place a row of cobblestones between the doors and the parking lot this will ensure that flatbed carts get a good shaking as your customers leave. This will result in at least two items falling off much to the amusement of your minimum wage retardees. Oh wait a minute you already did this. Well you could also make your parking lot with a 5% slope. This will make it impossible to let go of a cart that weighs 400lbs for fear it will run down the hill and smash into some poor bastards truck at about 35mph. What’s that? You already covered that? Of course you have. Back in the UK they have the Monopolies Commission (ironic note here, why is there only one)? They stop stores like Sam’s stitching up a neighborhood. Sadly Virginia has the finest politicians that money can buy which is presumably why the nearest Costco is 95 miles away in North Carolina.

So after Sam’s we are back at the Coffee House, unloading the truck, loading the shop, cleaning, restocking and prepping for Monday. Finally we are done and we set off for home, cutting through the court complex as a short cut. There we spot a freshly detailed Sheriff’s car with our local trustee sitting on a stool admiring his handiwork. I stopped to exchange pleasantries with the Bro’s and as I drove off I reflected, not for the first time, what a far more relaxed life he has than I. It is only a matter of days before I expose myself (so to speak) as the Smalltown flasher and end up in the town pokey for a 6 stretch. Three hots and a cot, a little spot of fetching and carrying and what is more washing the Sheriff’s car is infinitely easier than washing the brute of a Ram that I have to clean.

Easy street here I come, Zzzzip.

TCB

Coffee and Marketing

I might have to reassess my marketing skills with regard to the Coffee House. Yesterday a young lady came into the shop and asked how the wifi worked. I told her that once she became a customer I would give her the password and she was in business. An hour later she settled her account and gave me a $2 tip (nice). She then told me that she wished that she had known that we were here the previous day as she had driven the 30 miles to Bigtown looking for wireless. She eventually found herself in a well-known coffee chain store that charged an exorbitant amount for a coffee plus, and get this, $10 for the use of the Internet. After she left I considered her $1.25 for the coffee (cogs $0.50) and $2 tip (of which the IRS will get 40%, natch) and wondered if I really did have my finger on the pulse. Still it doesn’t pay to be too greedy, as those painted Jezebels at Smalltown’s library have already undercut us all by offering free Internet.

Speaking of marketing I think that I may have stumbled upon a new business model for the Coffee House. You see when it rains here in Smalltown people don’t fancy walking the hill for lunch, but they will telephone in a to go order. Most of the government employees seem to use our trusty trustee to fetch their lunches so they don’t even have to get wet. Actually this trustee business puzzles me, you see he has been in business just as long as I have. This means that his crime must have been relatively severe to warrant such a long sentence and yet minor enough that he can walk the streets of Smalltown with pockets full of other people’s money. I would guess hog humping or wife beating but I don’t think that either of these are actually illegal in Kissbotty County. Now with telephone orders I can pace them according to how busy the boss is. So if she is lounging around then the lunch will be ready in 5. Conversely if she is busy then “your lunch will be ready for collection in 30”. This means that we get a nice low stress throughput of clientele. It also means that if the Boss has bothered me I can wait until she is really snowed under and then tell the Circuit Court that 12 jury lunches will be ready in 5 and to send the trustee down now.
Anyhow the point is that I am seriously thinking of telephone orders only, so you come into the shop decide what you want and then use your cell phone to call it in. I will see how fast the Boss’s arms are flapping and give you an eta on your eats. The only disadvantages that I can see are that a) we will get through a lot of to go boxes and b) no-one seems to tip on carryouts. However I think that we can overcome this with what I call a non-discretionary gratuity donation (my man at the IRS says that, unlike tips, donations are tax exempt). So bring your cell phones and dig deep people, we need to make this work, I have a wireless network to support.

Coffee and Glasses

Saturday night and FOTL1 and FOTL2 are home. We all decide that with Mother’s day around the corner we should eat out and by a remarkable and fortuitous stroke of luck there is no argument as we all fancy a spot of Mexican. One of the advantages of being “in the trade” is that I know where to find the Health Department reports for restaurant inspections and this is what I use these days as my dining guide. So it came to pass that we found ourselves in Santa Anna’s Revenge, Smalltown. It is not the most salubrious establishment but at least (according to Smalltown’s inspectors) the guacamole is at the correct holding temperature.

I expect it is due to my English accent but I always seem to have a problem ordering at a Mexican restaurant even though I try to speak s-l-o-w-l-y and c-o-n-c-i-s-e-l-y. So I ordered a Corona “and may I have a glass to drink it from please”. Of course I got a bottle of beer, a wedge of lime and a glass of water. It must be the English in me but drinking from the bottle is so passé, if my mother could see me she would be spinning in her quicklime. Of course I planned to ignore the water but something caught my eye and looking down I saw that my old mate Bertie Grabbitt (Sue, Grabbitt and Runne LLP) had an advert printed on the glass. Apparently he specializes in accident and personal injury although bearing in mind the class of Santa Anna’s Revenge customers I would of thought he could have used a better copy. Perhaps “When your home is mobile but your vehicle ain’t come and see Bertie”. Actually I note that he is no longer Bertie, presumably in order to assist his more cerebrally challenged clients he is now Bert, which is two less letters to spell. I can’t imagine why the old Judas didn’t come to me first but he didn’t and as he has targeted the trailer market I shall have to set my sights a little higher.

I shall be forced to offer my glasses to Percy Piles (Hemmer, Rhoyd and Piles LLP) and I have even got the copy prepared

“Lots of smiles with Percy Piles
So let’s make a date to litigate”

Watch out Bert, I have my stencil and magic marker ready to go.

Coffee and Hunting (part IV)

Well it’s official; there are no turkeys in Kissbotty County. Once again I was up at 5:00 am and ready to do battle with the wily bird. We went back to the original happy hunting ground, the one that involves climbing to the top of Kilimanjaro. We climbed and climbed and climbed and heard and saw nothing. By this time I suspect that Tonto my faithful tracker and guide is getting a touch embarrassed at our abject failure to even hear a bird so he decides to move us on. We climbed down the other side of the mountain and back up the next mountain. After an hour he moves us on and hence another mountain, and so the morning dragged on. We are hunting on 500 acres and I swear to God we walked 499 of them. 5 hours later we gave up and emerged from the woods onto the dirt track road but about 2 miles from the truck. What a morning. I got back, kicked my boots off and decided to have 5 minutes on the sofa. After a few seconds I realized how much more comfortable I would be if I put my feet up. Then how much more comfortable, if I put my head down and before I knew what was happening, well you can guess can’t you. Of I course I might be feeling a little more manly had I brought the meat home but alas and alack it was not to be.

In an earlier blog I may have rashly said how great it was to be at one with nature. Let me tell you that from now on I am going to be at one with my mattress until at least 11.00 am on a Saturday morning and all the turkeys in Virginia can kiss my hairy old English bottom all over.

Coffee and Names

When I was a lad, which admittedly was a few decades ago, people had what I can only describe as real names. You know James, Harry, Mary and that sort of thing but these days it seems to be the case that anything goes. The so-called Posh Spice (and let me tell you people, anyone born in Essex, England is far from posh) named her kid Brooklyn as that is where it was conceived. People seem to name their snots after their favorite car or even shampoo and it all seems such an abdication of parental responsibility. These kids are going to grow up and be tortured by their little playmates for having names like Apple or Honeybunch Snowflake. Anyone naming their child should spend a few minutes checking out rhyming slang and stupid sounding names. A case in point is that Brad and Angelina should have listened to this advice before naming their kid Shiloh Pitt. At some point, someone at school is going to spoonerise her name and it will all end in tears. Kissbotty County educated folks may click here.

Talking of names, my old sparring partner, Rita Whiplash has pulled off an amazing coup and I am green with jealousy. She has started to advertise herself at every Outback Steakhouse in the land. I don’t know how she did it but every coaster features Rita. Now I don’t expect you t believe me and I could hardly believe it myself but here is a picture of the obverse and reverse of an Outback coaster.



Unfortunately the Valtrex challenged and Shine addled old slapper forgot to put her contact details on the coaster and this is where I need your help. I have promised Rita that wherever I go I will ink in her number and I also told her that I would get my vast army of readers to help out as well. So please visit an Outback tonight and write on the coaster 1-900-SPA-NKME.

Rita has promised me a small commission and I have just had to buy a new coffee engine so to be quite frank I need the money.

Living off the fruits of love.
TCB

Coffee and College

Lawdy, lawdy, what a weekend, I am wrecked. As you will doubtless recall (like you care) last weekend was graduation weekend at Collegetown. As it all started at 8:00 I was out of my love chamber at 5:00 so as to make it on time. The hooding ceremony went real well and as a bonus they didn’t waste any of my time with speeches, they just got on with it. For the benefit of the hard of hearing they had one of those sign people working nineteen to the dozen. Halfway through I realized that this would be a perfect job for me to add a little fun for the deaf people, and heaven knows they need some extra fun.

Welcome to the 2007 hooding ceremony (and please fondle my buttocks). Today we celebrate the achievements of our graduate students (I am wearing women’s underwear). Before we start I would just like to say (I am soooo gay).Well you get the picture and this does not even include the obscene gestures (did he just flip me off?). Yes indeed that is a job that I could do with relish.

In contrast to the hooding ceremony the awarding of the undergraduate degrees was three hours of drawn out misery. Why on earth these people would think that I would be interested in their anecdotal stories of childhood is beyond me. To rub salt into the wounds FOTL1 told me that the college actually pays these professional bores to speak. So there is another job I could do.

Due to a bit of a cock up on the booking front I booked a birthday party for the same day as graduation. This is why I generally let the Boss do all of the work in the Coffee House whilst I put the world to rights in conversation with our customers. Well the outcome was that we had to thrash back to Smalltown and set up 20 cream teas. The only high spot of the afternoon was when one of my customers told me that she wasn’t wearing any panties. Well as I am sure you can imagine this certainly captured my attention, however as I span round I discovered to my chagrin that the confessor was about 3 years old. Her mother rushed over in a fluster of embarrassment and explained that they had just had a slight bathroom incident and no spare underwear. Apparently the little girl thought that this was so neat she was going to find “the man” and tell him. Well little girl I salute you for being so young and already realizing that the Coffee Bitch is “the man”. If your dress sense does not improve in the next 15 years come back and see me.

We were supposed to move FOTL2 out of college after graduation but due to my double booking our Saturday afternoon I, once again, found myself zipping down the interstate for the second time in two days. Has anyone else noticed what a luxurious life style college kids have these days? I only came to realize this as I loaded computers, TVs, fridges, futons and a ton of other assorted girly crap onto the truck. By the time we were finished we looked like the Clampetts going to Beverly Hills. I did try to get the Boss to sit on the futon on the way back but as usual even my smallest of dreams were dashed. I think that FOTL2 was so embarrassed by my impression of the Joad family that she just got in her car and headed north, leaving me and the Boss to haul her crap. I am tempted to make her offload the truck herself but I know that if I try that on then all her stuff will sit in the truck until August when I have to haul it back to Collegetown, and there’s a thought, in just a few short weeks I will be doing it all again.

What a life.

Coffee and the Truth

Well it is official, Cheryl has gone and she actually came in to see us for a farewell tea, which under the circumstances was jolly sweet of her. It made me feel rather sad actually. Not just because she was going as to be honest, thanks to the pharmaceutical industry, a replacement is just around the corner. No it is more to do with envying her youth. Many years ago I was doing the same thing, Bombay, Calcutta, Chittagong, Dubai, the world was my oyster and what fun I had. These days just waking up in the morning is all the adventure I can handle.

After much searching I thought that I had found a replacement for Cheryl but as usual the Gods conspired to thwart my best endeavors. I have, for quite some time, been on rather good terms with a very pretty little high school senior but unfortunately here in Kissbotty County the kids don’t know how to spell discretion let alone act with it. So it came to pass that with one hand firmly grasping my boys, the boss asked why I had told little Angela that I was taking her to Florida after graduation. Instantly realizing that a misunderstanding had occurred I replied “ No, my dewy cheeked English rose. I said that as soon as she was 18 I was going to tamper with her”. This was quickly followed by the old twist and pull maneuver that I have come to know and fear so well.

I’ll tell you what, who ever wrote “The truth shall set you free” needs to have his head examined

The Cofee Bitch vs. Mother Nature

I really should have learned, after all these years I should have know better. Every time I berate the Gods or Mother Nature they come back to bite my weary old ass. And so it came to pass that I found a dead deer in the front yard. It hadn’t been shot and it didn’t look like a car had hit it. It looked like Mother Nature had just made it wander into my garden and then made it drop dead. Normally VDOT will take care of this sort of problem but only on state maintained roads. Here in Kissbotty County I don’t think that we have state roads so when it comes to garbage removal, snow ploughing (to use the correct spelling) and indeed deer removal, one is pretty much on one’s own. So I had a word with my gentlemen hunters and the consensus of opinion was that I should tie a rope around it and drag it out of smell range into the woods. Well I have recently discovered two new facts. The first is that a dead deer is the biggest fly magnet in the world. The second is that when it comes to smell range, you can never haul a rotting deer too far from your house. With a nice southerly breeze (which blows about 100% of the time) it is now impossible to sit on the deck without retching. I would pull the damned thing further into the trees but as you can imagine I can’t get within 500 feet of it. My only hope is that the neighborhood dogs eat it and then go home to yak up a huge portion of rotten deer bowel onto the marital bed. Now you are probably thinking that this is a tad mean so let me explain. My neighbors (and this is probably a southern thing) seem to think that it is acceptable to let their hounds out in the morning to wander the ‘hood and let me assure you that it is not acceptable. I do not want Blossom wandering into my house like she owns the place. I do not want Spot drinking my solar powered water feature dry and I certainly don’t want Butch ripping open my garbage bags in search of a tasty morsel. Fortunately salvation may be at hand as Virginia has declared a bounty on coyote. So if I stalk out the carcass, give these interlopers both barrels of the trusty BSA 12 gauge and then spray paint them grey, Blossom and her little mates could earn me $25 a pop.

Actually I don’t know why I should be in such a curmudgeonly mood as my predictions in a previous blog turned out to be correct and our takings for last month exceeded my wettest of dreams. I decided to celebrate this wonderful news with a spot of copulation but unfortunately so did the Boss. Fortunately I was able to resolve this dichotomy with a couple of Mogadons and when she was safely tucked up in the arms of Morpheus, sneak out and meet Miss Rita Whiplash behind the potting shed. Even Rita, the shine addled old trollop that she is, complained about the God awful smell but at least I was able honestly reply, for the first time in our “relationship”, “Well it isn’t me my little dominatrix”.

Mercy Mistress Mercy.

Coffee and the Bobcat

Once again the elusive gobbler beat me, still at least I had some fun, Coffee Bitch and nature at one. There is definitely something to be said for sitting out in the woods first thing in the morning. I am camouflaged from head to toe, with camo gloves and a face veil. Comfortably ensconced under a tree I fancy that as long as I don’t move I am invisible and certainly a small herd of deer agreed as they ambled by with 10 feet of me. Then, just I was starting to relax and feeling one of those exotic eyelid movies coming on I spotted a Bobcat. It was huge, spitting and snarling and all teeth and claws. On reflection it might have been someone’s pet ginger tomcat but it was quite a size I can tell you. He was cautiously prowling through the woods, oblivious to my presence and getting closer all the time. When he got to within 2 feet I threw my hands up and made a dreadful hissing noise. The cat hardly expected the tree to come to life and leapt about 10 feet in the air. It spun around and started windmilling its legs so when it hit the ground it took off like, well a scolded cat I suppose. For my part I hardly expected it to vent its bladder in fear. Oh yes, as it span around in mid air it did a ghastly impression of a Catherine wheel of urea and lavishly soaked me. From bitter, bitter experience I can tell you that the one thing worse than the smell of tomcat urine is the smell of tomcat urine drying in the morning sun. When we all hooked up at the end of another turkey free day the very first thing my hunting chums said was “What is that awful smell?” When I told the story they laughed until they were sick, the heartless bastards. I would like to be able to tell you that I got my revenge as they had to hold their heads out of the window on the drive home. Sadly we were using my truck so now the new car smell has been replaced with the used public bathroom smell.

I don’t mind Mother Nature taking the piss I just wish that she wouldn’t keep the catheter in the icebox.

Fortunately for tomcats everywhere I won’t be hunting next week, as I am off to see FOTL1 and FOTL2 graduate college. FOTL1 has completed her Master’s Degree with a 4.0 GPA and has been accepted into the premiere college for her discipline to study for her doctorate. She has also been given a teaching position so I suppose I will have to start calling her Professor FOTL1. FOTL2 has completed her Batchelors Degree with honors and has been accepted into her chosen college as a graduate student working towards her Masters Degree. As a result of some very astute planning by myself, they both graduate from the same college at the same time so I will not have to waste two weekends pretending to be proud of the little helions.

Now to let you into a little secret. I left school at 16. I only mention this in the hope that you will join me in shoving Darwin’s On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life. (to give it, its full title) up our collective bottys.

All together now, one, two, three, PUSH

Coffee and the Party

As I have mentioned before Smalltown is the buckle on the Bible belt. Churches outnumber topless bars by 1000 to 1 and ladies of virtue outnumber ladies of the night by the same ratio. I had no idea how serious things were until I went to the post office to buy some stamps.
"What denomination?" asked the clerk."Oh, good heavens! Have we come to this?" I replied.
"Well, give me 30 Catholic ones, 10 Baptist ones, 20 Lutheran, and 40 Presbyterian."

As you can imagine being a Coffee House we get through a tremendous amount of milk every week. Lately I have noticed the boss staring wistfully at the milk refrigerator and eventually she confessed that she had a secret fantasy to bathe in milk. Ever one to help out I told her that I could do that and would she like it pasteurized. She replied that she would be happy if it came up to her chest.

Well it is Friday and that has to be the best. My gentleman hunters have been in to make the arrangements for tomorrow and once again we shall be pitting our wits against the turkey. Fortunately my main man has twisted his knee. I say fortunately as this means that he doesn’t feel up to climbing the north face of Everest tomorrow, instead we will be hunting on level ground. I tell you, these good ol boys climb like freakin mountain goats and I can also tell you that a shotgun that weighs 10lbs at ground level feels like 200lbs after you have climbed what feels like 2000 feet. So if on Monday you see a blog that starts “Mortals, behold the mighty hunter” you will know that I beat the gobbler. Watch this space.

One more working day until the end of the month and we have not only beaten our previous best but we have shattered the record. Normally I would celebrate with a case of Grolsch and a big ol’ pull of white lightening but I have to be up at 5:00 again tomorrow morning, so we decided to have a party behind the Coffee House for our regulars. Most Smalltownians are pretty reticent when it comes to putting out and we were concerned that the party might not even get off the ground. Fortunately my little nursey girlfriends from the Smalltown hospital came up with a perfect solution. I am sure that you will have heard of Long Island Iced Tea, well with the aid of my little Florence Nightingales we made a big batch of Smalltown Iced Tea. I provided the ice and the tea and they provided the lysergic acid diethylamide and the Psilocybin mushrooms. I tell you this was the party of the year, I am so glad we got a video as I am sure you will agree that some of these Smalltown ladies are pretty damned hot. Of course you have to remember that almost all of them carry a pocket bible and that kinda takes the edge off. I say almost all as DQ was in this week relating a tale of unbounded altruism and at the end I said “Jeez woman you really are a saint” to which she recoiled in horror and said “I ain’t no saint CB”. One sinner out of hundreds, not a great percentage, still hope springs eternal.

OK enjoy the party and I will see you next week when hopefully I will be covering the keyboard with turkey parts

Coffee and the Accident

My Jim Beam induced moment of introspection was rudely curtailed by someone barging into the Coffee House and frantically asking me to call 911 as his wife had fallen over and maybe broken her leg. Suspecting, as one does, the old slip and fall scam I shuffled off to the office to have a leisurely read of our insurance policy after all one cannot be too careful in these matters. As a slight aside I once had a car radio stolen and when I made the insurance claim the premium taker asked me what model the radio was. Of course I replied that I didn’t have a clue. The insurance tosser then informed me that the make of radio would determine what size the check would be. Ah right replied I, I do believe it was a Rolex. Insurance boy replies "Well CB I don’t think that Rolex make radios". Sure they do I retort, It was a clock radio.

So I wandered outside to find the poor lady lying on the sidewalk with a clearly staved in patella (knee cap to you) and a husband flapping around like a headless chicken. As usual there wasn’t much of interest going on in the shop so I thought I might hang around for a while and see what happens. After a while the adrenaline starts to wear off (hers, not mine) and the pain kicks in. I decide to do the decent thing and get her some iced water and an ice pack. She accepts my gifts but studiously ignores the tip jar that I left clearly in sight. After some 15 minutes her moaning and wailing starts to get on my nerves so I offer to walk across the road to the Smalltown hospital. Back in the jolly old UK if you wandered into the ER and told them that someone had fallen over outside, Matron would dispatch a couple of skimpily dressed nursey types and a gurney and everything would be taken care of. Sadly it would appear that in Smalltown (and probably everywhere else in the US) there is no room for initiative in medical care and in consequence much of the ER just stared blankly at me, as if I had wandered in and asked for a Tabasco enema. Of course we know that we can lay the blame firmly at the doorstep of our litigious society and it doesn’t take a huge stretch of the imagination to picture Messers Hemmer, Rhoyd, Piles, Sue, Grabbitt and Runne all following the gurney handing out business cards and waiting for a wheel to fall off. The outcome was that the best that the ER could do was to let me use the phone to call emergency services again. The charming dispatcher told me that they had got my call and the ambulance was currently on its way from Brokeback Mountain and would be there within 10 minutes. And here is the point of this blog. Did you notice the definite article? THE ambulance? In the whole of Kissbotty County there is one ambulance? Yet I have seen lots of different ambulances running around but I guess they are reserved for special customers who perhaps have a secret number to call. I might just try dialing 912 to see what happens.

Now one might like to suggest that the Kissbotty Emergency people should save their money and buy another ambulance so that anyone who falls over and breaks a leg doesn’t have to wait 20 minutes for a 100 foot ride to the Smalltown ER. However the Public Safety people are addicted to the Boss’s chicken sandwiches and every month they have a big meeting for which they order 22 Chicken on whole wheat. So if the choice is between spending money on our sandwiches or buying a new ambulance might I respectfully suggest that you tread carefully?

Note to the legal profession in Smalltown. The broken leg woman obviously didn’t make it, so there might be a juicy negligence claim in the making. I know she died because she never came back into the shop to pay for the ice water, ice pack and the jolly Coffee Bitch conversation.

People can be so selfish at times.

Coffee and Hunting

Yes indeedy I actually went huntin’ with my buddies and here is how it went down

CB’s diary

Got up at 5:15, it is dark and cold
Drove miles to the middle of nowhere
Climbed the tallest mountain in Virginia
Nearing the top, heard turkey gobble
Answered with turkey caller using last remaining joule of energy
Hear faint gobble
Hang around for 5 hours
Go home, no breakfast


Turkey’s diary

Wake up at sunrise
Flutter out of tree
Have sex with my hens
Make weird gobble noise to let the ladies know who’s their Daddy
Hear “hunters” dicking around with Walmart turkey call
Move ladies to next county, gobbling as we leave
Breakfast on bugs, berries and nuts.
Plans for tomorrow? Probably more sex and food, what a life.

Actually it turned out to be somewhat addictive and although I can’t believe it myself I am booked to do it all again next Saturday. We pitted our wits against a turkey and the turkey won. I blame it all on television myself.

The Bitch doesn't go hunting

In order to tell this little tale I need to set a scene and explain some cultural differences so bear with me here.

In England we have very few open spaces and no guns so hunting is pretty much a non-existent sport. In addition the champagne socialists have banned fox hunting on the basis that the fox did not get a vote as to whether or not he should be torn apart alive by a pack of dogs. England has neither moose, nor elk nor bears, so all in all hunting is restricted to small birds. If you are fortunate enough to be the friend of a multimillionaire (or indeed a multimillionaire yourself) you might get the opportunity to walk a 1000-acre grouse moor, and here is how your weekend might go.

Friday night, arrive at stately home for a nice leisurely dinner and cocktails. Saturday morning, arise at 9:00 for a spot of breakfast. Actually the full English is a rare treat. Eggs, sausage, bacon, kidneys, black pudding, kedgeree, kippers and so on and on and on. Incidentally for you culture vultures, breakfast is the only meal where the English gentleman serves himself, the butler just stands there, strange but true. Then at around 11.00 everyone piles off to the moor to bag a few grouse, scared up by the beaters. Then a spot of luncheon and we are done.

So back to the Smalltown Coffee House. It turns out that this is the start of Spring gobbler season (turkey to you) and my gentlemen hunters have invited me join them. We are making the arrangements over a coffee and things start to head south faster than Britney’s career. It seems that I have to be sitting under a tree before the sun comes up. Who would have guessed that turkeys spend the night in trees and you have to blow their heads off just as they are getting out of bed. There was to be no cocktails, no black pudding and worst of all no lying in bed until 9:00, in fact the final knife to my heart was that they arranged to collect me at 5:30 Saturday morning. I did, however, have one tiny out. Apparently the boys (who let me tell you are no spring chickens) do not go out in the rain so my instructions were to look out of the window at 5.15 and if it was raining, assume that they would not show. So it came to pass that with trembling fingers I pulled back the drapes to discover that God had answered my prayers and it was indeed hammering down. With a scream of joy I leapt back into the pit, crossed no man’s land and entered enemy territory. Of course I was rebuffed with the usual “Get away from me” but hey, at least I wasn’t hunting.

On reflection perhaps I could have removed my camo and boots before trying it on with the boss but when in Kissbotty……..

Coffee and Sickness

Bonjour, ma petit choux. I am back. I haven’t blogged forever as we got incredibly busy for the longest time and to be quite frank after a hard day of overcharging and shortchanging I never quite fancied writing about it. Then something happened that has not happened for 10 years, I got sick. I got so sick we actually had to shut down. Now I wasn’t exactly at death’s door, but I was sick enough to watch daytime television so it was almost like dying. In a coma like trance I watched a program where obese women with pendulous breasts and no bras, rush to the front of the audience, guess the price of a piece of trailer trash furniture and win a car. It was a triumph of mindless nonsense and is possibly the only program so simple that all the rules are contained in the title. It is called the “Price is Right” and America, I weep for you.

I was also bemused by the advertising, which let me tell you, outnumbered the programming by two to one. Here is a thought, if you are advertising payday loans or title loans or any of those other legal loan shark deals, should you not advertise to working people? You see advertising loans to people who are watching daytime television seems to me to be a recipe for not getting a loan repaid, unless the master plan is not to get repaid but to get your hands on the title to the family car. Still worse than this are the adverts that scream at me. “PAY ATTENTION MORON, PUT KAABOOM DOWN YOUR TOILET AND NEVER CLEAN IT AGAIN, DO IT NOW MORON”. Jesus if I had the strength to get my Magnum 500 I would have shown that bearded twat Billy Mays a thing or two.
Well if daytime TV is a plot to get the malingerers back to work, it worked on my sick ass. I tell you people I would rather be circumcised by a meth addict coming down from a five day high, whilst suffering from a grand mal seizure and wielding a rusty grapefruit knife than watch anymore daytime TV.

Coffee and Angels

We have a customer who is something to do with Bigtown’s Symphony Orchestra. Last year she gave us tickets to the Christmas Pops thingy and recently she gave us tickets to see the Orchestra and Aaron Spelling. I know it sounds a strange combination and indeed it turned out to be a night of disappointments, which seems to be a theme in my life lately.

The festivities started off quite well with the Liberty Bell March by Souza. Sadly for Souza (like he gives a rat’s) no one can listen to this without thinking of Monty Python, which incidentally is pronounced Pie-thun. I only mention this as inevitably when people discover I am English they tell me how much they like Monty Python. Dude, that was 40 years ago, move on, try watching a Bottom DVD at least that is only 20 years old. So at the end of the march the conductor says “And now for something completely different”. How the Boss and I howled. (If two people laugh in the Bigtown auditorium, does it make any sound?). Then he spoiled it all by talking about Tin Pan Alley music, which was apparently a flash in the pan at the outbreak of World War I in 1917. WTF! What are you teaching your kids out here? Where were you in 1914? This is just as bad as that nonsense you people spout about saving my ass in 1943. (BTW you are wrong on that as well, I wasn’t even an ovum in 1943). WWII started in 1939 and we broke the Germans backs in time for you to saunter over and steal all the glory. Oh well let’s not dwell on old history.

So the second half arrived and I eagerly awaited Aaron. I was particularly keen to meet Bosely and Charlie’s Angels as I needed to thank Farrah Fawcett for a very happy experience that involved the 14-year-old Coffee Bitch and that poster. You have no idea how crushed I was to discover that this was not a night to be spent with my lovely angels but instead some huge black guy warbling on about how “I don’t know much, but I know I love yoooooooouuu, and that may be all I need to know”. What a rip.

I tell you people, it is a sad Friday night when the only bulge in the Bitch’s pants is a S&W Air Lite PD351

Coffee and Divorce

So Bertie Grabbit (Sue, Grabbit and Runne LLP) and Percy Piles (Hemmer, Rhoyd and Piles LLP) were in the shop yesterday, discussing a case in which they represent, respectively, the plaintiff and the defendant. It didn’t sound too interesting so whilst they were both distracted I used the opportunity to short change them both. Then Bertie started talking about another case in which he represents Mrs Darleen Scumbag who wants a divorce from Donnie Scumbag. Darleen has a huge scar on her left cheek where Donnie shot her in the face. Apparently the round went into her cheek and exited the back of her neck miraculously missing the carotid artery, jugular vein, vagus nerve and all of that stuff inside the spinal column that allow Darleen to walk and talk and yes indeed breathe. Now Bertie (and I swear to God this is the absolute truth) says that he thinks this will be suitable grounds for divorce, to which Darleen demurs on the basis that after the shooting she went back to Donnie.

I have no interest at all in the marital status of Donnie and Darleen but this does raise the question, what did Donnie do to Darleen that is worse than shooting her in the face, to prompt the divorce?

Note to self, never marry a Kissbotty County woman. Apparently they are harder to get rid of than a dose of Iranian crabs.

Coffee and the Bard

OK so Shakespeare may not have actually said “What a tangled web…” after all.

See here

Well he should have said it. Still being at the top of the list of non-Shakespeare quotes is almost like he said it don’t you think?

In spiteful retaliation at Shakespeare geeks of the world here is a joke that only the Brits should get..

WS walks into a pub and the landlord looks up and says “Get out, you’re Bard”

Now I am off to clean the crapper, which just goes to prove that one day you are the windshield and the next you're the bug, as WS never said.

TCB

Coffee and Pain

So I was whining on to one of my customers about the appalling state of my front garden. It’s not exactly my fault as the previous owner had done pretty much squat in the grass department. In reply, and possibly to stop me becoming seriously boring, my man gave me a whole load of advice on lawn maintenance and then told me that I needed a four wheel drive tractor with a grader attachment and a heavyweight lawn rake. I stated the obvious that I didn’t exactly have all of this industrial equipment and without a pause he said, “Well I do and you can borrow it”. So this weekend I shall be King of the Hill as I trundle around on a big ol’ tractor. Today I told this story to two of my neighbors who are also customers and they both said that they also had the same equipment and if only I had said they would have willingly let me borrow it. That, my friends, is what life in the south is all about.

Kissbotty Radio (home to all the hits) is once again plumbing the depths of professionalism. Due to someone forgetting to put a quarter in the electric meter they went of the air for about an hour or so. When Dick ‘n’ Ed (the impossibly perky little gay bar loiterers that they are) realized what was happening, or not happening in this case, they put a Police single on, hit the repeat button and went off for a spot of mutual appreciation. For many months these two walking perfume shops have been crowing about the fact that they also broadcast on the web (for those fortunate enough not to be able to receive a radio signal). Of course it goes without saying that they forgot that the web listener would be hearing Rox-aaaaaaane, you don’t have to put on the red light, 237 times in a row. Now the listener was so concerned that Dick and/or Ed had died at the wheel that the emergency services were called. That, my friends, is what life in the south is all about.

Actually I shouldn’t rag on at Kissbotty Radio, they do their best and at least it isn’t 24 hours of hard-core country. The problem is that I have had some bad news and to be quite frank I am feeling more that a touch testy. My little friend Cheryl has announced that she is to pack her bag, leave Smalltown and head for L.A. in search of a new life. She has no job, no place to live and is just going to wing it. This paragraph is not going to make any sense unless you read about Cheryl first, so if you have not already done so, please click here and the rest of us will wait until you catch up. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Great welcome back, now you know why I am so grumpy. I suppose it was good of her to give me some notice so that I can gradually wean her off the gamma hydroxybutyric acid, God knows I don’t need her getting any repressed memory flashbacks as I think in all fairness only one of us had a good time. Anyway it looks like I am going to have to find a replacement for Cheryl and my first thoughts were perhaps one of my PHAT mothers might do. Fortunately I discovered in the nick of time that one of them is the sister in law of the police chief. Jesus, talk about a narrow escape. Perhaps I will just have to stop putting the sensual in non-consensual. As William Shakespeare once said “What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive” or did he say “Incey Wincey spider”. I just don’t know any more.

Cheryl’s impending departure has made me realize that I too should make so life style changes. I have therefore decided to stop pretending to be a masochist. You see it’s true I do get no kick from sham pain.

Coffee and Hells Bankers (cont)

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Coffee and more temptation

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

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

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

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

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

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

Watch out liver here comes Friday night.
TCB