Some people are just genetically pre-disposed to pissing me off.
I am in a looooong line at Starbucks. In front of me is a woman that, and I rarely use this word, but it fits, is snooty.
Make that snooty bitch.
The word bitch gets over used by so many that it almost loses its charm. Just when I am tired of it and just about to quit using it, I run into someone that bristles with indignation over the mere utterance of it.
Back to the snooty bitch.
She is on her phone. Whoever she is talking to may as well be asleep because snooty bitch is talking non-stop about every subject under the sun, without stopping, barely pausing for breath.
Like some sort of unstoppable chatty-Cathy doll that figured out how to yank its own string.
All things seem to fall into one of three subjects.
1. How much it cost. There was a brief tirade over the merits of her car versus her sisters car. “My car is a $50K Mercedes for gods sake, Her car costs less than $20K and she boasts about how many cup holders it has, if you can believe that.”
I like cup holders. Where would I put my coffee otherwise?
2. Where she got it. Evidently, you can buy the same product in two different locations, and one will be better than the other because of the location. “I bought my Iphone at the Mac Store in Brentwood. Jim got his at some place near the airport, and he has had nothing but problems.”
Steve Jobs was a great guy, visionary and all, (RIP Steve) but he would have loved to wing a spare Iphone at snooty bitch.
3. Where something is made. There is a pretty interesting denial streak running thru her, and she fancies herself as something of a patriot. “You know me, I only buy American.” She says this into her made in China Iphone, after having driven here in her made in Germany Mercedes. Having known her only a few minutes, and also knowing almost nothing about fashion, I am still willing to bet cash money that her bag is Made in France Prada. (It could be a knock off, but those are made in Thailand.)
Finally, it is her turn to order.
But she won’t stop talking. She is having two conversations at once, or maybe just one. The conversation in the phone takes priority over placing her order.
“I would like a venti Caramel- did Jim mention were are going to Barbados for Thanksgiving? A caramel moci- no, he likes the water there.”
At this point she begins flapping her hand like the girl is just being difficult with her. Finally, she yanks the phone away from her head with an exasperated sigh, speaking with the cashier like she is a slow child.
“A venti caramel mocchiatto with extra caramel.” She gives the UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLY patient cashier a snotty smile.
“Was that so hard?”
She is not a ginger, but I am just on the virge of putting my foot to this rotten snooty bitch’s ass.
The cardinal rule in any food establishment is you never shit on the help.
Most chain stores try to regulate it, but there is an excellent chance that someone behind the counter is going to spit in her caramel mocchiato with extra caramel.
And I hope she spills it in her Mercedes, right on her Iphone.