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.

Oh Sweet Peacock Penis Have I Got A Crazy For You

I really feel as though I should seek employment with my Circle K because it seems like every major event in my life can be somehow Kevin Baconed back to a connection with that damnable Circkle K; and here's the latest:

I would like to tell you that what happened to me today was a terrible calamity. That somehow the negativity of the day's episode would change the course of my existence in some way or another. However, it was far less Draconian than all that and I could never really pull off the effective misanthrope thing.

No, what happened to me today was a mere inconvenience. One that cost more money and time than I would have liked, but a mere inconvenience none the less. Ironic it would happen to me outside of a Circle K.

I returned to my vehicle after puchasing an ice cold, sugar free Full Throttle, and a somewhat less titillating bottle of Aquafina water. I put the keys in the ignition, turned the key to the same degree I always do to start the car and. . . Lo and behold, no juice. Except there was juice. All the power came on, the A/C was pretending to be cold and all the bells and whistles lit up; but the engine wouldn't turn over. I had no idea what was wrong, so I started to freak out. But again it was more an, oh shit I'm missing the new episode of Desperate Housewives kind of freak out, as opposed to the, oh shit I'm missing the new episode of Family Guy; which would be a true tragedy in the Shakespearian sense of the word.

Okay, let's make what should never have become a long story short again by saying that it was the ignition. For patent reasons I had to go to the Ford dealership for a switch that cost $115.86, which I later found out actually costs a whopping $20.00 if you have connections. So I get the part back to my vehicle, my dad was with me at this point and we were going to attempt to do this ourselves, when I realize that we can't even get the old ignition out. I am going to blame this on shotty manufacturing, but it was probably just our own ineptitude. So, with much deliberation I call a locksmith, "sorry man, can't have anyone out until tomorrow." Then I call another, and another. Finally one of them refers me to this guy named Allen; at least I think that's what it was. Says he knows what he's doing and that I should call him because he can probably help me out right away. I was soon to learn why.

Allen the Locksmith rolls up in this very large former Wonder Bread, fading forest green truck; on which you can no longer read the name and number of this man's failing locksmith company.
He parks his beast, walks up to the doorless passenger side opening, and says. . .

I will pause the story for a moment here, for you must see the broken magnificence that I saw at that moment. He was tall, with deltoid length ratty blonde hair. His neck was too long for its own satisfaction and the wilted grey tank-top he wore was unpleasantly congruent. He had a gut/ beerbelly that was somewhat maintained by the shirt, and his fingernails reminded me of Gollum. Not just Gollum's fingernails but Gollums entire character. Everything that Tolkien intended to portray in that character was personified by this man's fingernails.

Now, I have worked my way down this man's physical make-up to this point, but I must say, from the waste down is the most magnificent of all. It's kind of like licking a schnozzberry.

Allen the Locksmith wore daisydukes the likes of which have never been seen. Half his arse was displayed for all who would never wish to behold such a monstrosity. Seriously, Ron Jeremy in an iron thong would have been more comfortable than this. Still, regardless of this spectacle there was something dangerously amiss. I looked as often as my stomach would permit to try and grasp just what it was, when suddenly I realized. . . This man had superb legs. I wish I were joking, but I realized how smooth and effortless this man's legs were; from perilous daisyduke hips to old worn socks and sandaled toes. It was then I decided to do more detailed research into this phenomenon. As I watched him do his locksmith thing I came to the disturbing observance that this Allen wore panty hose. And they must have been of good quality to peak my academic interest. Panty hose folks. Panty hose with man-daisydukes and velcro sandals with unwashed socks riddled with tiny holes of over use. This was the sight I beheld.

. . . "I'm gonna need the old ignition, along with the keys." His voice was distinctly Canadien, stressing the Os and speaking general irrelevance. If you have ever watched a Hockey game you know what I am talking about. He set the new ignition to the shape of my key in short time, had it set in my vehicle in even shorter time, and $60.00 later he was on his way. I do not dispute the man's aptitude for his particular field of work. He made my life normal again by simply doing what he does; and for that I thank him. I only hope he can do the rest of the social world a favor and take some of that $60.00 to buy himself a longer pair of shorts.

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.

The Peddling Homelessman

Sorry for the delay, I know it has been a while since any of you have seen fresh content.

Well here is one that I have been chewing on for a little while now, it's another Circus K extravaganza.

About a week ago now I went into my Circle K, as it has been dubbed, and as I approached the front door I saw what appeared to be a middle aged homeless man -we assume he's homeless because it's a pretty safe stereotype- who had his blue backpack openly laid out on top of the trash can. I didn't think much of it as I was on my way in and he didn't interact with me at that time.

So I finished purchasing my Circle K paraphernalia and walked out. As I opened the door I heard this man on the trail end of his sentence asking another gentleman who was getting in his car if he would like something. Didn't hear what it was but saw the departing gentleman graciously decline. Okay, I'm intrigued. What ever could it be?

As I get closer to my car I look into this man's backpack and see some of the contents. Among them were things like cans of Chef Boyardee, Spam, Ramen and some bruised fruit that looked like it had just come from a bizarre fetish focused porn set. As I stepped off the curb into the parking lot this guy, with tattered camo fatigues and a frayed existence said with an impeccable Jackie Gleason from The Honeymooners inflection, "You wanna buy some vegetables?"

Wow, vegetables; right. I responded courteously that I was alright for the moment and in that same "to the moon" voice I heard, "how about an orgasm?"

What?
By this point in the transaction I was very nearly laughing out loud at this man's face. I had no idea how to respond to such an outrageous suggestion. Was he serious? Had I misheard him? The only thing I could think to say was the first thing that came to mind and that was, "no thanks, I've already had my homeless lovin."

And that was that. I'm not sure how well he made out that day, economically speaking; but he made my day. And being the butt end of a joke, especially a homeless one, should make anyone's day really.

For A Young Friend

This post is dedicated to a young barista who for so long now has incessantly pestered me to write it. Yet, in stern procrastination I have held off, uttering excuses like,

"I will post it soon," or " I haven't gotten the blog up and running yet, but as soon as I do..."

Well I hope the wait has paid off, for I no longer have a pliable escape, and the dupable minds of our youth are only so malleable.

The following is what I will call a reminiscent entry, as the instance occurred a good time ago, months now. So it may not be altruistically fresh in my mind, but I will attempt to report the past with as much comedic bipartisanship as possible.

It was mid-afternoon in the drive-thru, sunny and warm on the outside as typical Tucson goes and blazing hot inside, as the store's air-conditioning unit was firing on empty for the third year in a row. We were taking orders and filling orders, as intriguing as that sounds when suddenly we see an old grey something or other rounding the corner. The car itself was one of those things that you want to write about, but there is simply nothing in your mind at all that registers that it actually existed.

The thing that made not registering the car acceptable however, were the things that were attached to eachother in the cockpit. Oh yes, they were attached, attached at the lips. Whatever they were they were engaged in a tongue of war that the mighty Gandalf himself would have cowered away from. Seriously, it was as though Gene Simmons had cloned himself and then wanted to play the game, who can reach the others toes through their stomach fastest. It was probably the most immodest piece of public fore-play I have never wanted to see. In fact I'm getting a little noxious right now just picturing it.

I would probably have been inclined to acknowledge the existence of God, if that were the worst part of the episode of Cinemax meets Cops, but it wasn't; and I can rest comfortable as an atheist tonight. The worst, I mean the absolute Hannibal Lecter worst was the fact that there were two extremely young children plastered to the back seat, forced to watch the public beating that was their parents (at least I hope they were their parents) making out three feet in front of them. You remember that Cher video where she was front and center stage wearing her leather pants with the ass-cheeks cut out, so the whole world could see her lilly white posterior in all of it's middle-aged glory? That was her son playing guitar not a cars length behind her. That is what it must have been like for these innocent young children sitting in the back of the car that I can't remember.

So they finally get to the window, and someone goes to collect their money. It wasn't me, that is all I know. But I seem to distinctly remember watching the whole transaction and one thing that does not come to mind is them ever peeling away from eachother, even to talk, even to breathe. I was well beyond the point of screaming "get a room" at this point. I more wanted to yell "someone call 911." Given my overall shock however, I was forced to just watch the entire moment climax, and then slip away into oblivion, forever to be remembered as the time I realized that public affection is okay.

Public death by mutual tongue strangulation however, is not.
Thank God they were wearing clothes.

Circus K

I recently visited what I have grown to refer to as "My Circle K."

I imagine at this point that we all have one or two that we call our own. In the age of the almighty Starbucks and the infestuous Wal-Greens, we seem to have forgotten, or at least have taken for granted the original King of Convenience. This is, in my observation quite unfortunate for us. For while high society may look with scorn upon the decomposing vestige that is the Circle K, lower society hasn't. And by lower society I mean those both less intellectually fortunate, and less economically fortunate.

Now before anyone gets there silk panties twisted into their posterior, I wish to mention here that I frequent the Circle K; almost daily, for my convenience needs. I am not implying that the only clientele that the K has are those mentioned above, any more than I am implying that the only people who frequent Starbucks are top notch cognitively healthy people; they aren't, believe me.

All I am implying, and I hope my subtlety is not lost here, is that the Circle K has become quite an entertaining venue. A place where the natural world can play out its most Darwinistic art for the greater aesthetic good of an evolved society. Go back to a Circle K sometime, you will see what I mean.

Anyhow, this post regards a moment in my life a couple of nights ago when I visited my Circle K. I had gotten the bottle of water that I wanted from the cooler, and had made my way into line. As I was standing there, pretending to mind my own business, I watched a Tucson Fire Department truck pull up directly behind the gas pumps. Now this in itself is no strange occurrence at my Circle K. There are always police and firefighters and EMTs and security guards. So this is nothing new.

Until I began to listen to the conversation of the Circle K associates behind the counter, as they purposefully make no secret any of the stores shenanigans. The lady who was ringing, I'm sure she has a name but I do not know it now nor do I think I ever will, was saying to her comrade that some customer at the gas pump had called the fire department for assistance.

Here the questions come flying into my brain. Why on earth, other that a fire involving toxic fumes, which were nowhere to be seen, would anyone call the fire department out to a Circle K?

Well, fortunately I was able to learn through observation and strategic question asking exactly what happened. Apparently the man who called for help had shoved the gas pump in his truck in a way that would not allow him to retrieve it again. That's right, I said it.

Some dude got a gas nozzle stuck in his pickup truck and had to call the fire department to help him get it out.

I am truly sorry for this man in so many more ways than one. It will take much more than a fire department to help him through life, and sadly I won't be there to witness most of it. But that's alright. At least I have this moment with him. He will forever be remembered, like the mighty Achilles, only in a much different context.

A Quick Change Of Pace

Originally I had intended to post the most crazy customer experience I may have had that day, for five days a week; with my current job being the sole contributor.

I think I'm realizing rather quickly that I may not face a debacle a day worthy of writing a hefty and meaningful piece on. So, with the consent of my comrade I have already changed the dynamic of the Daily Crazy (yes within the first month of operation, that's just how I roll) to include consumers of the psychotic persuasion from all walks of the service sector.

No longer should you look to find only Starbucks customers here, but customers from each and every retail outlet that we may grace from day to day.

This will be an adventure that rides us on the winds of Valhalla all the way to Olympus. The gods will be jealous of the insanity we witness.

And we are willing to bring all of this to you, free of charge. Unless you want to pay us for some ungodly reason. If that's the case I have connections. Just let either of us know. If you do decide to pay us I can assure you that we will make it worth you while, if you know what I mean.
I hope you know what I mean because I don't.

Anyway, point is that we are now on the lookout for all crazy all of the time and are committed to presenting it to you in the most entertaining form possible, until we are blue in the face.

200 Degree Mocha Lady

Here she is folks, the very first dishonorable mention in the Daily Crazy.

200 degree mocha lady has beaten out the tough competition she faced while I was deciding who was going to be our cherry popper. She should feel proud, really.

200 degree mocha lady is crazy. She has been coming to our store (despite hopeful threats to stop doing so) for far too long now, and boy how she hates me! So sad.
She almost always runs her lazy ass through the drive-thru, which I really shouldn't complain about because this way I usually don't have to deal with her; and she always orders the exact same thing:

"I want a tall mocha, 200 degrees with whipped cream."

Seems harmless enough. Bear in mind that this is the same lady that used to order 182 degree mochas before she decided that they just weren't quite hot enough for her. 182, not 180 or 185, but 182. Hmmm.

Everytime she comes through and I am playing in the drive-thru, I have the same routine. I begin to steam the milk, I prep the cup with all of the fixins and then I turn to my co-worker (whoever that may be) and I say, "Aaahhhhhhhwww, I can't stand this woman."
Once I have gotten that very necessary meloncholic groan off my chest, I begin to steam the milk. Not to two hundred degrees mind you, but to the point where the temperature can no longer be physically raised . To the point where you push the button to continue steaming and the damn lactose substance explodes in your eyes like a seemingly innocuous chemistry project gone mournfully awry. I then grab the spoon that one uses to separate the milk from the foam, heat it up under the 195 degree water tap, then pour the milk into her cup. I then top with whipped cream and graciously hand her her beverage.

Here is where I usually begin my downward descent into hopeless anger. She takes the tasty beverage, presses it against her cracked and souring lips, and partakes. And inevitably each and every time, she looks back at us through the open window and says, in a Bette Midler in the movie Hocus Pocus type of way, "this isn't hot at all."

This isn't hot at all?
Are you @#$*ing kidding me?
I can physically, scientifically get the milk no hotter. Milk, being mostly water has roughly the same boiling point; which is approximately 212 degrees Fahrenheit. As I have said before, I pay no attention to the actual temperature of the milk while I am steaming, I just let her rip and stop only when it is no longer safe to continue. So the milk is as hot as is humanly possible, unless she would like to try and drink the vapors that a higher temperature would create.

I have told her this before. I have actually said, in the most cordial voice I have, "mam, it is physically impossible to get your milk any hotter than I have made it." She looked at me with hate in her eyes and said "I know that." Then she proceeded to tell me that if I simply put the milk into a larger pitcher and let it boil over for a longer period of time, that it would be hotter.

So by putting it in a bigger pitcher and letting it boil over, I can defy the laws of physics. Richard Feynman is kicking himself in the nuts right now.

What kills me is this lady is a highschool teacher. Charged with guiding the youth of America to lead us to a better lot. Son of a B are we in trouble.

200 degree mocha lady is Hitler's long lost niece.
I am only too happy to have known of her existence, as she has given me the opportunity to tell the world that she is a crackpot, and if you ever have the chance to meet her...
I am sorry.

The Disclaimer

Alright everyone, here goes.

I built this blog some time ago, and since have found very little time to update it.
This has been either from a lack of minutes in the day, or more likely because of a legal trepidation that I have developed during my study of the law and politics.
You see when you are writing on an issue that involves the bread and butter of a major corporation you have to be careful what you say. You need to ensure that the material you are presenting is presented in a way that will afford you no affiliation with the guidelines and policies of said company. Otherwise you will face a s@#$ storm of legal trouble; and let's be honest, I am nowhere near far enough along in my career to stand up to the likes of Starbucks.

And I do not wish to.
That is not what this site is about. I love the company, love working for the company, and have nothing but reverence and awe for the performance of the people who run it.

That being said, it is my opinion that there are instances in which the customer/employee interaction becomes laughable. Instances in which one can imagine themselves on a movie set or in some other role playing situation where one person is supposed to act out of control ridiculous and the other is supposed to attempt to gently extinguish the situation. But as most acting goes, the ridiculous person is so comedically over the top that both actors lose themselves and it turns into a laughing contest. This is how these customer/employee interactions go, yet there is only one side laughing, our side.

And so it is here my intention to let you in on some of the laughs. To see the comedic side of the consumer world.

I hope you enjoy my Daily Crazy.