I’ll Have The Usual

6 Feb

I think we’re all living in one of those glass globes and some power-that-be has decided to pick up and shake the damned thing and now here we are with all this garbage and detritus floating around, and we’re breathing it all in, but most of us don’t care because we’ve got our hi-def TV screens and American Idol is starting the competition soon.

Some old arthritic hag with an enlarged prostate has gone from high-powered advertising exec to sweeping floors and washing toilets for Starbucks and now he’s all over the news because he’s happy and content with his downgraded life. Never mind he’s made a killing in the business of selling us junk over the last four decades (he’s in his late 60s), and never mind Tom Hanks is going to play him in an upcoming movie directed by Richie Cunningham or Ronnie Whatshisname…he’s downsized, you see. And ain’t life grand when you’re cleaning piss off the porcelain rim, but you’ve got a couple of mil to back you up in case the odor of the ammonia permeates too deeply into the lungs?

The mother of the octuplets, the one who already has six children and has been living with her mother, confesses she is lonely and she wanted a big family. And the offers now are pouring in: books, movies, specials…she’s hired a publicist, this welfare parasite. “She’s the most sought-after mum in the world” is what the BBC is telling me. This is what’s important. This is what we want to read. So give it to us, lads. Judith Regan is salivating over this one.

On top of all that, management here is feeding The Doobie Brothers down my throat or Michael McDonald or whoever it is that sings that insufferable Ya Mo Be There, so it’s hard to even put two and one thoughts together.

“Do you want room for cream?”
“Yes, please.”

What I get is an over-priced volcanic concoction (i.e. regular coffee) that’s beyond filled to the rim which, given the economic situation would be very welcomed, as I’m trying to stretch my dollar and seventy-five cents as much as the next guy, only why even ask my preference if the answer won’t register?

I originally sat down here to give you another story but the incessant, loud tidbits of useless conversation by the myriad female patrons at this time of day (unemployed? or just well-off with kids in school?) passionately describing their exercise routines on their treadmills, coupled with horrendous classic rock selections have killed everything that might have produced something worth reading. And instead you get this. Lucky you.

“Do you want room for cream?”

Well? What would you tell her?


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