The Woman Who Stole My Will To Masturbate

So I'm truckin along in the DT, having a raucous old time with my crones of the green cloth, when all of a sudden, I encountered death.

You see when this thing was at the speaker placing her lifeless edict of doom, the world was still revolving around the sun, the Easter bunny was still pink and dirty sanchezed from all the chocolate, and I was still fairly certain that David Hasselhoff was dead. Boy was I wrong.

But no one warned me. At least no one sufficiently warned me. I shouldn't have even been there. It wasn't my time, it wasn't my deployed position; I was simply filling in for a comrade who was attempting some final semblance for a store in shambles. This is the prime example of taking one for the team.

She comes around our little bend in her little rust colored Honda Element; windows too tinted to see the ensuing danger within. This is why law enforcement should really do more to ensure the proper laws are being adhered to in this town, because if the tinting is too dark, it may just be the end for an innocent barista jovially going about his humble task.

So she finally pulls up and rolls down her window, and there it was, right in front of me. I always wondered what the grim reaper looked like under his massive black hood in all of the movies and television shows he has appeared in. Now I know.

Seriously she looked like someone had the terrible idea to cross-breed Tales from the Crypt with Celebrity Death Match and Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous (kickin it old school right there. Yeah). She had no lips at all, but an enormous amount of orange/rust lipstick that matched her car, which spread out about two centimeters all the way around her mouth; and what I can only call her teeth, were spaced just enough to know that it didn't happen naturally, as though just enough of each side of each tooth had been eaten away, leaving sufficient space for a tic to run some hurdles; if he so desired, of course. I have never met a tic that enjoyed running hurdles, but then, I haven't really met all that many tics.

And apparently someone grabbed a tuft of skin on both sides of her head, just between the temples and the eyes, and pulled a little too ferociously towards the heavens, then grabbed a stapler and nailed that wrinkle free SOB home; and I would venture to say the skin above her cheekbones has looked that way for a very long time.

Now, I probably haven't painted a detailed enough picture for you to get a good idea of what the woman actually looks like, but this is beneficial for everyone involved for two reasons:

1. Trust me, you don't actually want to know what she looks like. In fact, I have taken great pain to ensure that you don't have to actually know what she looks like. As a writer you should thank me for this. Any writer can show you what something looks like for the sake of logical progression; but there aren't many writers who can not show you what something looks like for your own good, but still get their point across. So if you find the time later this week perhaps, drop some love on this semantic fool. How? I don't know. Buy a forty of Mickey's or something and pour some ad terram (that's Latin).

and

2. I have given you enough information to know precisely how my stomach was reacting to this debacle. Which is all you need for me to proceed. So here it goes. . .

She would not only have nothing to do with me trying to verify her order and total, but was quite adamant about holding her money back, to the point of me having to reach into her car, which was like reaching into hell. This old hag was getting her rocks off on the fact that there was a young man in the Starbuck's Drive em' Thru who had to reach inside of her personal space in order to fulfill his duties to the company. She was tempting me in a way that old Super Champ Butterbean would tempt a 12 year old dwarf girl of a mentally challenged status to a hot dog eating contest, where the winner gets to place the unholiest of unholies in the unholiest of unholies.

All the while, and I must say I was not surprised by just how fitting this was, there was a massive pooch of some sort or another (I am no dog person) sitting in the seat behind her and as he was leaning over her shoulder/trying to get a look at what was going on outside, he was drooling all over the back of his owner's head and shoulder. And when I say drooling, I don't actually mean a couple drips of spittle here and there, oh no. This dog was watering the hair on her head. Seriously, it was a constant stream of drool; he was like k-9 version of one of those fountain statues that constantly pees into a pool for some rather pleasant ambiance, only he was peeing on her head; from his mouth. Awesome.

She would not let me take her money until I had both given her the 180 degree cappuccino that she ordered (what is with crazy people and extra hot drinks ), and two dog biscuits for her fire hydrants in the back seat. I quickly grabbed the biscuits, handed them to her in a napkin, afraid to catch a bad case of the death, and finally took her money. Once I had given her change and this painful chapter of my life was coming to an end I said, "have a nice life," and she drove away into the mist.

I hope no one ever has to endure what I have endured. Life can certainly be cruel sometimes.

Until next time, stay crazy.