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Can I have some more, please?

I have been accused of being uncaring.

I am not denying it, but I did have to ask for clarification about WHAT I am not giving a shit about. (I may be an asshole, but I am a specific asshole)

Turns out my rude critic was talking about the fact that I have not written a post in 2018, and THAT was why I was uncaring.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

I haven’t written anything BECAUSE I care.

I haven’t seen anything that has gotten my sarcastic muse wet in the panties.

The well has gone dry, I am burnt out, I may never write ag-

I was walking down the street and saw an old dog, laying on a porch, licking his balls, and then it hit me.

We are all here for a reason.

Time to get back on the horse.

So I went to Starbucks and looked for inspiration.

And it turns out that inspiration keeps a tight delivery schedule.

Sitting next to me was the coffee shop version of Job. (To those on you unlettered heathens, its pronounced “Jobe”. Job was the whipping boy of the scriptures. God let the Devil gang beat him like a ginger and he never lost his faith. Thank God it was him and not me, I don’t have that kind of fortitude. I get a papercut and I am questioning my existence.)

 

The story of Job.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…etc.

Blah, blah, blah, you know the rest, its the opening line from A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens.

Here’s the thing about Dickens.

He was an asshole when it came to life.

Everything being dark and sad and people living in such shitty conditions that the kids in the UNICEF commercials would be willing to take a break from waving the flies out of their mouths for a few minutes and pony up a couple of bucks.

So, if you ever want to ruin your day and shift into a “What’s the use? I may as well kill myself” type of mode, pick up a copy of anything written by Dickens.

Why the hate rant on Dickens?

Because the guy next to me has the saddest story I have ever heard and his name is Oliver. (Started out as Job, then morphed to Oliver. Its a reach, and I acknowledge that, but fuck you, its my blog, I am God here, and it is what we are going with.)

Oliver, it seems, has lost his job. (Pronounced “Job”, if you are a millennial, you are probably wondering what a job is. Ask your parents, if they will still acknowledge you in public.)

And, “Hanna” has left him for someone he knows. (Wife or girlfriend, I am not quite sure. But she is out there, legs in the air, doing shit that career fetish hookers charge high dollars for and its all pro-bono. (Pro-bono isn’t the right word there, but the hooker-bono linguistics are spot-on funny.)

And if that sore on his lip is an indicator, Oliver has a little herpes going on. (Either given to him by or he gave it to, the disloyal skank Hanna.)

Turns out Oliver is wearing those special ortho shoes that has one sole taller than the other, indicating that both of his legs are different lengths. (I almost left this one out, even I have a hard time believing that little detail.)

“But what is your biggest problem right this minute?” I hate getting involved, but someone has to ask the obvious question.

Oliver pondered, went to take a sip of coffee, stopped and shook the empty cup, laughing.

“I’m out of coffee.”

And then he hobbled his unlucky ass up to the counter for a refill and a scone.

At least he has his priorities straight.

Mmmmm coffee.

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Posted by on February 16, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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Dickens, motherfucker.

A tale of two cities.
To paraphrase Dickens, it was the worst of times, it was even more worst of times.

City #1 is in Torrance, CA.

I make no claims of being a saint.
But evil lurks in the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.
And, as it always does, it is in the form of a woman.
I will get some hate email for that line, but its true.
Women are the root of all evil, its a scientific fact.
Plus I read it on the internet.
The localized evil in the Coffee Bean has taken the form of a late teens girl named Sarah.
Sarah is special.
Not as in the mentally handicapped form of special, I mean self-inflicted special.
You can tell in the way Sarah drove up in the parking lot and took up two spaces.
The way she sauntered across the parking lot like her life depended on being the hottest chick alive.
Swag wise, if she were a dude, her dick would be hanging out.
At the front door, she stopped, and waited for a guy that was still 10 feet away to open the door for her.
She walked by the pastry case and eyed the goods.
Her order, when it came, was done while not looking who she was talking to.
One of those personalities that you hate instinctively.
Not evil at this point, just annoying.
And then her coffee came, and the evil began.
“What the hell is this?”
Turns out her latte was off.
Her next statement was double the volume.
“How hard is your fucking job?”
It went on with Sarah running at the mouth and embarrassing both herself and everyone that had to hear that shit spewing out of her festering gob.
This is why people’s food gets fucked with.
Sarah is the epitome of arrogant entitlement in this world, you can’t help but hate her.
And her parents.
I blame them.
Shitty kids come from shitty parents, its an old story.
And one that only gets worse every time you hear it.

City #2

Hawthorne California.
I try not to screw with people who could spit in my food.
Call it a personal thing.
And Papa John’s Pizza is the last place on earth I would screw with.
Because where they make their pizza’s, I cannot see.
That means if I am an ass, my pepparoni and sausage is getting either teabagged or an extra shot of DNA.
And nobody wants that, especially not me. (I mean the cold sore on the pizza prep guy’s lip LOOKS like its clearing up.)
But things are not looking good.
There are three people ahead of me.
The first two are given partial refunds and free chicken wings, mainly because it is taking so long.
The guy who ordered just before I arrived is losing his mind.
They end up giving him an entire pizza for his trouble.
And then it was my turn.
I ordered online, I waited 20 minutes before I came in.
They checked my id, assured me that the pizza would be ready soon.
20 minutes later, I asked and the guy checked, any minute now.
This is when the guy ahead of me got the free pizza and left.
And it was mine,.
Had to have been.
So, 45 minutes after I entered the front door, the Gump-like cashier finally fessed up that the pizza was either given away or not made.
Would I like a refund?
I WANT MY FUCKING PIZZA!
I told him to make it, and send out the manager.
In the mean time, I stood on my tiptoes to watch the guy make my pizza.
If he spit on it, he would have had to have done it when he put it in the oven.
And that is when the 12 year-old with the manager name tag came out.
He barely spoke english, the cashier spoke no spanish.
The pizza prep guy had to stop what he was doing to come over and interpret.
I am beginning to see the problem.
I told the guy that I had ordered 80 minutes ago, been in the building for an hour, and been assured by Gump 3 times that my pizza would be “Up soon”.
The pizza was cooking, and I would be taking it with me.
He would also be refunding me what I paid.
Then, he would be jotting down his name, and the name and phone # of the regional manager.
I am beyond dick at this point.
I don’t yell, but I realize that I am talking lower and over enunciating each word.
Translation: Pissed off.
This is why I will fight tooth and nail to keep $15 an hour minimum wage from happening. The job and the attitude are just not worth it.
You want to make more money? Work your ass off and get some skills and a raise.
And if you have no skills and are trying to raise a family on minimum wage? Shame on you. You are a brand of stupid that $15 is not going to fix.
And the pizza sucked too.
 
2 Comments

Posted by on October 10, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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