What You Are Laughing At

Take Me It's Not As Bad As It Looks... It's Probably Worse

Whistle Stumpenlegs behind me here at work has some sort of brain disconnect. This is a person who is frightened of silence. As if his thoughts will never manifest if he doesn't make some sort of noise at all times. He observes a strict open door policy, which is to say "Well hello, this here fella is one heck of a fella to know and to be a fella with. Come on in and we'll ring up a few whistly tuney tunes! WOO HOO WEEEE!" If I had an "Open Door Policy" it would be this: "If my door is open, close it."
I'd be way more upset if I weren't blogging about his bass-ackwards attempts at being "folksy" or so obscenely wine-drunk right now.

What's That Guy's Deal?

I encountered a complete a-hole today at Starbucks. The guy two spots ahead of me in line gets to the counter, and as he's ordering, he's got his face turned downward to his hand while he counts change, likely to be used to pay for his coffee. He's likely muttering, as the gal behind the counter says, "I'm sorry sir, I didn't get your order." His head snaps up and he leans with one hand on the counter, and repeats, in a condescending tone, "GRANDE DECAF NON-FAT 2-PUMP SUGAR FREE HAZELNUT NO FOAM EXTRA HOT LATTE."
The only man who should drink something that complicated is either Ryan Seacrest, because he's a teenage girl, or Geoff Lott, because I order whatever the frango I feel like ordering.
So the dude pays in change, even though he's wearing a pair of Cole Haans and the outfit of a man who is desk-boundly employed. In CHANGE, is this a Summer Camp? NO, it's a friggin' Starbucks. Hit a Coinstar first, use a Debit Card, or just steal a fresh drink off the counter, but don't pay in Change, Skippy, 'cause then they gotta count it, and my life is getting shorter than Joan Rivers' eyelids.
As the drink is placed on the counter, the cockstomer and the barista have a clash. The barista, already backlogged and dredlocked (how Now! that's What I Call Hip Hiring!), reads the order outloud, the way they've been taught, and leaves the "no-foam" part of his recitation. The asstomer says "No foam, right?" Barista dude - "Yeah, sorry, no foam." Dickstomer - "Are you sure?" Barista - "Positive, you can look and see, sir." Cockstomer - "Because I don't like a lot of foam on the lattes that's there." In the meantime, my drink is sitting next to the drink of a man who has an aversion to all things frothed. I carry some pretty colorful baggage, my friends, but I know when to leave them in the car, and YES, I usually crack a window.
I decide that I'm going to get my drink, even if someone ends up with a bruised kidney, because hey, I'm not sure how FoamHomer is gonna react. I will throw an elbow if necessary, in Starbucks or anywhere it's called for. So I stand as close to the guy as possible, reaching across him, my arm about 8 inches from his face... 8 inches,yeah, I measured it, heh heh... and say "Excuse my reach, I'm in the way." I didn't touch him, I didn't yell at him, and I even held back from hugging him and gently petting his balding bird-like head, whispering, "There we go, you're safe now. The foam won't get you."
The dictatertot throws a lengthy order into the hopper, and one bit of it, the least-important bit of it, next to "In a cup, please," is left out. Pop the top, check the foam levels. WTF? The point of this story is this: Whenever you think your Iced Grande Non-Fat Light Ice Latte is pushing boundaries, there's some change-paying waste of bladder space crying over foamed milk. You're fine.



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