Tongue-In-Cheek … Foot-In-Mouth

The piss, moan, and complaint of the day (I mean “of the morning,” the day is young):

It frosts my weenie when I go to get a “simple” cup of “simple” coffee from one of those “simple” coffee franchise places, like, for example, oh I don’t know, say, the one who’s name rhymes simply with “Ptarbucks.”  Now, stay with me on this.  Work with me.  Focus.  Okay, so, coffee franchise sell (are ya ready?) coffee.  This, you would think, should come as no great surprise to anyone, to include dull-witted mutated mothballs.  And I mean that in a nice way.

So, I go to “Ptarbucks,” and find that, generally speaking, I stand in line at “Ptarbucks” long enough for my feet to sprout roots; which firmly plant me into the ground.  And this occurs because, generally speaking, the three hundred and twelve people standing behind the counter, who are employed at “Ptarbucks” which is a place which sells COFFEE (d’uh) collectively only know THREE solid word of English, by which I mean “no comprende ingles,” and are trying to hand me a piece of tile off of the floor.

I stand their and begin pointing and pointing and pointing so many times at what I actually want.  This does nothing, and I might just as well rip my arm out of the socket and throw it as what I actually want.  But, I generally only toss one of my shoes at what it is I want, and then and ONLY then does the gaggle behind the counter suddenly and collectively realize that I DO NOT want a piece of the flooring, but rather, I, for some strange unknown reason want, get this: COFFEE!   Eventually, one of the illiterate elite prepares the coffee; hands me the coffee; I leave the shop, and make it ALL the way 4,000 light years back to my office.

Once there I attempt to innocently pull back that little white plastic tab thingy to expose the drinking hole thingy.  And then I attempt to bend back and press the end of the little white plastic tab thingy into the little white plastic tab thingy holder.  BUT, the lid collapses and gets jacked-up.  SO, I fight to remove the caved-in lid and to get the lid back on the cup.  AND then I try AGAIN to secure the little white plastic tab thingy into the little white plastic tab thingy HOLDER!  AND after I finally get the little white plastic tab thingy securely into the little white plastic tab thingy holder, I take a sip, the lid slips off, and coffee, which is slightly hotter than magma streams down MY face.

Naturally, I press down on the lid to secure it in place, and more lava coffee pours onto my hand, and NOW I have 9th degree burns on MY face and on MY hand!  And after I get out of the burn clinic, I take another sip of MY coffee, which now has it’s lid firmly held in place with duct tape and rivets, and I realize that they DID NOT give me a French Vanilla which I ordered, but rather they gave me (nasty word) HAZELNUT which tastes, well, like NUTS, and I HATE nuts that is why I ordered French (nasty word) vanilla and NOT HAZELNUT!

However, this is NOT the point of this week’s column.  The point of this week’s column centers on something vitally important: owning two different vehicles, because what dopes owns two of the exact same vehicles, unless, of course, the dope has the short-term memory normally associated with that of a cardboard cutout of toothbrush.  And if they are two different vehicles, it stands to reason that they will be equipped with TOTALLY different dashboard configurations, hence two different vehicles.

 WARNING: when you go from one TOTALLY different dashboard configuration to another TOTALLY different dashboard configuration, AND you attempt to perform a normal dashboard function (e.g., turn on the radio) this simple normal function, because ALL radio switches are NOT located in the same location in ALL vehicles, and so when you turn the “alleged” radio knob to the “alleged” “on” position, you might find yourself accelerating up to 900 miles an hour while still in your garage.  But this is a rare occurrence, usually happening to those clueless cretins who have about as much business being behind a steering wheel as a bag full of wet hamsters.

Okay, so, anyway, I have been typing for a while; I need a break and a cup of coffee.  Luckily I am in Boston today typing my column, and just across the street is a “Ptarbucks.”  It’s 11:55 in the morning, nobody is in line, and there are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…300 “workers” behind the counter.  That means I should be in and out by noon 2179.

So, join me again in the 22nd century where we will discuss the finer points of how, back in 2009, I fixed the hole in my garage door which was shaped like my van NOT my car.

 Copyright © 2009 Bill Drury.  All Rights Reserved.