198 Degree Caramel Macchiatto Lady

Oh that's right, it's the same crazy.

This incident took place a couple of weeks ago, on a Thursday night; which just so happened to be more packed full of people than your highschool prom queen.

I had an awesome crew that night, so although it was like a war zone, we had a good time and just rolled with it. Well, about 20 minutes before close, 200 degree mocha lady shows up with what I hope, for his sake, was not her husband, for a night-cap of sorts. She gets to the counter and much to my chagrin, I am on the register, and orders a one hundred and ninety eight degree Caramel Macchiatto... Hmm. Apparently if there is caramel involved those two degrees will prevent the caramel from becoming liquid lava and creating duct work inside one's throat. How unfortunate.

Anyhow, she completes her order and her husband, or whatever he was pays, and they go and stand by the bar. She was the last customer I had in line at that particular moment, so I go over to the bar and help expidite beverage production... hmm?
You like that technical terminology don't you?
As I am standing there producing, I overhear the conversation that HN -that's short for Hitler's Niece, that's just what we'll call her from now on- is having with an innocent, unsuspecting bystander. I couldn't hear everything, but I heard one sentence quite distinctly and it was this, "yeah, I teach a highschool english class, and all my students hate me."

No kiddin'.
You mean they're not all beaming rays of sunshine reflecting off of your highness's divinity?
Cause that's what I would have assumed.

Alright, a little after that my Dad comes in the store to say hi, and I'm just chattin' it up with him where the line would be if there were one. She comes groping up to the counter reminiscent of a Buffalo having just been shot in the temple, looks in the pastry case for a second and asks one of my co-workers if we are going to throw anything out that she could have right then. My co-worker, the talented and sexy individual by the name of Matt who is my oh so prolific teammate on this blog says, "no sorry, I think we have already thrown out everything we were going to, the rest is good through tomorrow." Or something like that. She looks at me as I stand at the register talking to my Dad and begins to walk away. My Dad and I continue on in our unrelated conversation and suddenly she turns around, walks up to the counter and says, "you know, that's why I don't come in here that much any more. I just go somewhere else."

Okay, first of all, I would dissect my own left testicle, and with one hand behind my back feed it to a ferocious liger of the netherworld to make that true.

Second, where the hell did that come from? She addressed the comment to me. I wasn't doing anything that may have provoked such an outbreak. Just having a conversation with my dad about Buddy Guy (his CD was displayed on the counter at the time).

It's getting near closing time at this point, and I am beginning to get a little antsy, because if I have to go over and tell her that we are closing, I do believe there would be local law enforcement involved. And I don't want that to happen because it just means that we are all going to be there later than necessary.

Thank the good Allah above that it didn't come to that. She left two minutes before we were going to lock the doors, but not before her and her manbeast underwent the worst sting operation I have ever seen in my life. They slowly made their way to The New York Times stand, literally looking like rugrats up to no good, and hovered there for about twenty seconds. Then I watched her boy toy grab a paper and make for the front exit, as she covered him with these lucifer like stares in all directions; as though suddenly everyone who saw him steal the paper would be warded off by her evil and forget the last few moments of their lives.

It was genuinely the most pathetic thing I've seen since Michael Jackson busted out from behind stage on that Justin Timberlake performance at some awards show that happened within the last five or six years, and attempted to moonwalk his way back into his illustrious eighties career.

But then HN, a.k.a. 200 degree mocha lady, is just that pathetic.
Someday I will be rich and famous and I will give awards to the most pathetic wastes of consumer space; but until then, let's all just laugh and be merry. It's all we can do.