Starbucks Drama: These kids are howling mad

Princesses. And not the Disney kind. These are what I call the bored packs of chronological adults but psychological feotuses who roam downtowns on Saturday nights looking for a solution to their own stupidity that doesn't involve gnawing off their own limbs out of boredom.

A pack of principessas walks in. The melting pot is in full effect, with hues in all colors of the rainbow. The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. would be so proud. I say that with zero snark. If Crayola tried to make "flesh" color based on one of this lot, they'd have to pick a hue ranging from dark chocolate to ivory. 

He would quail in shame at their utter lack of respect for anything and anyone else in the coffee shop. Who would imagine that this deck of dunces - all under five-and-a-half-feet tall could make enough racket to drive everyone within a two-block radius running for the next Virgin Galactic flight to Alpha Centauri?

Specimen One - who could probably play linebacker for a Division II football team - parks her denim-clad hips and the rest of herself in front of the pastry case and starts to peruse. And apparently this is a royal pastry progress, with the cupcakes carrying pennons and the cookies being drawn on a coach and four - for she intends to stay awhile. Hurricanes will topple trees in Canada before she moves. She puts a finger in the air, cocks her head to the side, rolls the neck, flips the lips and squawks with all the grace of a garbage disposal eating a plastic spoon "Ya'll, whadda I want up in hurrrr? Whadda they be havin?" The language of Shakespeare is such a thing of beauty, of poetry, of precision and wit. It has been broken beyond the borders of all known repair.

Specimen Two - skinny jeans and turquoise ballet flats (what IS IT with those things?) gets her black coffee (diet, natch) and goes to the condiment bar. Where she proceeds to doctor it to the point it no longer resembles coffee. While hollering to her friends - "I CAYNT BELIEVE HE SAID THAT!" "NO HE DIDN'T" "I KNOW THAT AIN'T RIGHT" "I'MA SMACK HER ACROST DE FACE WHEN I GET UP IN THAT HOUSE." Again. Language. Are they learning to speak it at all? I want to SEE their text messages. It must be written in what would be the equivalent of Minoan to you or me.


Specimens Three, Four and Five - with five being a male who joined late - conquered the comfy chairs in the corner and dragged more chairs over to join them. Three triple chocolate chocolate chip frappuccinos for them, with whipped cream and they specifically asked for extra chocolate syrup. They're young. They won't get diabetes for another two years.

Specimen Three has on skinny jeans, a Banana Republic Oxford and lime green canvas shoes. They're cute, but lime? Really? Her feet look like they're searching for a Jimmy Buffet song and honey you are not old enough to drink.

Specimen Four has on dark, dark, dark blue denim high-water jeans. I don't think she shaved her legs for this. And something pink. It is very bizarre. I never thought that pink and whatever color of dark-wash denim this is really went together. It sort of looks like a half-melted Starlight mint that's stuck on the upholstery of somebody's grandpa's Oldsmobile 88.

Her hair is also crying out for a hot oil treatment. CRYING. Girls. Ya'll *need* to take good care of your hair. No man will love you if you do the Britney Spears bald look. The Sinead O'Connor Bald might be OK. She is shod in something black and clunky that looks like hooves. I had a pair of mules similar to that in college. I wore them to a club one night and lost one of them on the dance floor. That was fun.

Specimen Five, the male, is wearing brown slip-on house shoes, the kind old men wear when they can't tie laces. They don't even have a back. I swear to all the dark powers of Kali, Cthulhu and Baal, these are not fashion sandals - THEY ARE HOUSE SHOES. I can see the fabric.

He also just howled.

Let me repeat that. This child just howled, like Benicio del Toro in "Wolfman," HOWLED. I also question whether he is interested in those girls as "friends" or "girlfriends," because I saw a suspiciously limp wrist, but that's a discussion for another time.

Specimen Five's boyfriend (or "bro") just showed up. They seem to share cell phones like adults share child-care responsibilities. Five is making assurances to someone on the phone "YEAH, YEAH, I'LL BE THERE TOMORROW. I GET OUT AT THREE. I PROMISE I'LL BE THERE. I SAID I'LL BE THERE. DAMN. DO YOU WANT TO CALL ME OR DON'T YOU TRUST ME?" I don't think they trust you. What do ya'll think?

He has spread his legs in the chair, is flapping his arms and talking to the ladies. About marriage, as it seems. The plot thins.

This was specimen number five's description of his future marriage ceremony. You make the call. "I'm going to get married on an island. The waves are going to beat against the rocks. The clouds are going to part, the birds are going to cry and you're going to see a rainbow, nothing but color." Gentlemen, ladies, at least he's got a romantic side - whichever side it is buttered on!