A word about Dunkin Donuts in the p.m.:
Busted.
I am through witchu, Dunkin’. Consider yourself slammed – like Onyx.
Don’t nobody want no burnt-behind coffee. Why, Dunkin, why? Why are you open past the morning rush hour, in the afternoon at 2 when I patronize you, in the early evening when I need your boost? Why are you open - mo’ wicked than Wilson Pickett - in the midnight hour when I crave you? A dollah fitty for some burnt grinds?! Nay. ‘Tis not freshly brewed, ‘tis not.
You know what, Dunkin? You ain’t gettin’ no more of my money. Last Wednesday night I sucked it down for the last time because I was desperate, like Roxanne leanin’ on a pole on some street corner waitin’ on the Police. But on Thursday night? A-ha. Nita found her a mall with a Starbucks inside; ain’t no need to put on no red light my latte sang to me as it made its way down my throat.
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For real, I'm allergic to work.
So I’m done with the job now, but I just want to say in the finale last week, I was sittin’ at my desk, righ? And all of a sudden my forearm started itchin’, so I scratched it. It kept itchin’ and since I was hard at work with my headphones on doin’ what I do, I just kept scratchin’. And then my neck was itchin’, so I scratched that, too. In the midst of all this itchin’ and a-scratchin, I realized that my forearm was on fire from all that scratchin’. So I take my headphones off and concentrate on my forearm like, “Lord. I hope there is some skin left.”
Then I notice my co-worker is doing a whole lot of scratching, too. He takes his headphones off and is like, “Damn.”
And I say, “What is up with all the scratchin’? Shit, I’m itchin’ like I got fleas.”
I say that louder than I’d have liked to say it, but a few seats down our partner in crime hears us and says, “Yeah, I’m itchin’ too. But I mean I couldn’t say nothin’ because I don’t want y’all thinkin’ I’m nasty or something.”
Twelve of us are talkin’ right steady-like about itchin’. Meanwhile, we’re all steady scratchin’. Our manager comes back wondering why we’re all acting like we’re not at work, and we say that it’s because we’re itchin’ – you know, like we got fleas. I mean you know how mentally when you start itching in one place, it’s like you’re suddenly itching everywhere? Some of us were twitchin’ behind our ears and everything. It made me think of that jingle that the little puppy sings, “There may be bugs on some of you mugs, but there ain’t no bugs on me.”
Sadly, our manager goes, “Um, that’s because guys. There are fleas.”
“Say what?!” our various voices, eyebrows, faces, dropped jaws and cocked eyes say all at once.
“Oh sure. You’ve never heard of paper fleas?” says Ms. Manager a little too cheerily. I mean, she said that mess like I’d never tried ketchup on French fries.
“Paper wha?!” I said.
Classifications of fleas. Whose job was it to find that out? Aren’t fleas just fleas? When human beings are affected, I think that’s sufficient. I don’t care what kind they are, where they’re most likely found, how long they’ve inhabited the space – I don’t need a friggin’ Census report for the sapsuckers - but she went ahead and explained this to us. You can tell that I wasn’t really listening, because that’s just some shullbit. We all done been infected by fleas. That’s nasty.
Ms. Manager goes, “Well guys, think of how much paper is in here. There’s bound to be bugs with all this paper and all this dust and all this space …”
And all this shullbit, I think. She is way too nonchalant about this, and is talking about their being so commonplace as if she’s accustomed to it. (She is, but still.) Y’all she talked about those fleas like they were her friends, encouraging us to take it easy like we were each starring in our own Beverly Cleary book and some flea could very well be our Ralph S. Mouse; she talked about them like they were a favorite old sweater; like the old husband that rolls over and farts on you in the middle of the night and then snuggles on up.
Like it's all good. Fine and damn dandy.
My co-worker and I start mumbling about this as she keeps talking, and I say what I just wrote above. He is laughing at me calling me silly, but he agrees that it ain't alright, that this is nasty and we all should be allowed to leave for home to shower. In fact, he says that they need to shut up shop and “hose this shit down.”
One of those “goth” people walks by, you know, one of them with those collars on. I point out the collar to him and wonder aloud if she’s immune to the fleas.
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'Ey! I heard that on the Superman rollercoaster, they strap you in deah and you actually be flyin' - arms and legs all out. Splayed.
Who wants to go to 6 Flags? Kim and Rob went while they were hanging out in Atlanta and now I’m jealous.
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The left lane is for liberals.
I do a lot of driving these days. At first I was excited about it, then I settled into the routine of it, then I emptied my pockets several times over paying for gas and then I get stuck too many times and too damn often in the midst of people who really aren’t sure which pedal is the gas pedal. Or maybe they’re just trying to conserve …
Speaking of conservatives (no harm or riling up intended, but …), I get stuck behind more “W,” “Dubya,” “Bush/Cheney” stickers driving slow in the left lane. You know what I want? (Besides a friggin’ mounted bazooka.)
I want more consistency, damnit. If you’re a right-winger, stick to your damn side -- the right side. You claim taxes ain't necessarily necessary, then don’t be taxin’ my damn nerves by going less than the speed limit in the bloody left lane. You’re holding up progress got dernit. That’s right – progress. Being a left-laner myself, I’m proud of my progressive nature. I am pressing on and I shall overcome your slow and steady behinds. The word for you is consistency; the word for me is lead - as in, getcho can over and follow me, the leader. You claim to be constant so get your tail over into the lane that’s reserved for your conservative regard – stay the course in the right lane. That’s what it’s there for. Show the rest of us your lauded compassion and get the kcuf over. You’ve always wanted to be in the right. This is your chance.