Surgery can only do so much.
Take an average 60 year old woman.
Give her some fake breasts.
Not while she’s young enough for you to enjoy looking at them, but old enough that she thinks you do.
Now give her enough botox so that any expression other than Liza Minelli’s ex type of dazed is impossible.
That “Permanently surprised” look
And inject her lips with the double the “Oh shit!” amount of whatever so she looks like a duck.
And finally, implant Donald Trump’s ego.
Then plant her outside of Starbucks in a yoga unitard, emphasis on the tard part, just to be mean.
This is a quote.
“I was out with my grand-daughter last weekend and someone asked if we were sisters.”
Are you shitting me?
I am parking my bike outside of Starbucks.
Just about to take up my post for Occupy Manhattan Beach, and yes, I am mocking that whole stupid fucking thing.
There is a gaggle of older women, all in their yoga tards.
If you are related to a tard and find this offensive, my bad.
They get their lattes, do some elitist loitering out front and then saunter their well monied asses down for some high priced, incense choked stretching.
Yeah, little bit of angst going on here.
There is a kind of a wide brick porch that catches the morning sun in front of Starbucks..
The guy that sits there every morning is always dressed casual, sips his salted caramel latte and read his paper.
You might think well dressed homeless, but when was the last time you saw a homeless guy with a titanium Rolex?
The man has money and keeps it low key.
I hate him.
Might be the Rolex.
Have you seen the Titanium? I mean, up close?
Anyway, here is the setting.
I am farthest from the door,
They ELDERLY women are on the side walk, off too the right of the door, right in front of Rolex dude.
It is at the last comment by the delusional old broad, the “asked if we were sisters.” comment, that Rollex dude spits out his coffee.
No shit, a naturally occurring spit take.
Mid sip, he spews it back onto the lid of the cup and all over the brick porch next to him.
“Oh my FUCKING God!”
I am riveted, but I love a scene.
The ladies are standing, shocked, as the guy folds his paper under his arm and takes his coffee and walks off.
He was ten feet away, facing away from us, and it sounded like he was talking out loud to himself.
Really loud to himself.
“How FUCKING OLD is your grand daughter?”
Its rude, but God dammit, thats funny!
It is an awkward, long minute before the old women recover.
“Was he talking about me?”
The confusion in her delusional voice is obvious.
The other hens don’t miss a beat.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Delusion, if nothing else, is tenacious.