Sweet tooth night at the biker bar

Someone should really do some sort of Starbucks correlation between the type of drinks people buy and the disconnect that sometimes happens between the appearance and the reality of the coffee buyer and the drink.

To wit, the wonderful world of Alice down the Rabbit Hole that I witnessed tonight.

Please note that I really don't care what the hail someone orders. I really don't care who, what, where, you are, exist, be or on what plane of existence you chose to play house - as long as you're not causing me grief.

However, I love delicious irony and subtle snark with all the fierceness with which I mow through a field of the Starbucks chocolate sparkle donuts. And I will chomp down a few acres of those faster than a witch will call out some flying monkeys!

I'm sitting in the corner, minding my own business and snarking on some old Eurotrash wearing striped sweaters (black and white for him, ugly red, blue, green and purple with orange accents for her) and  trying to figure out how to work my iPhone.

Something gargoylish, clad all in black stomps up. I would say that it defies description - but nothing defies my powers of purple prose.

Male, six-foot plus, with hair that has only a passing familiarity with shampoo but a well-worn acquaintance with both grease and a pompadour. The bushy poof rides high on his head like a wet racoon poised to strike at a fish in a pond. That's the high point, literally and figuratively.

A thin goatee frames the pudgy face, a vain attempt to disguise a weak and almost non-existent chin, which itself is swallowed up into a thick neck, which itself disappears into an atrocity of all atrocities, a green camouflage T-shirt worn over a black turtleneck. Green camoflage - worn in a totally unironic fashion.

This stunning and fashionable ensemble is tucked into a pair of black stone-washed denim jeans, which are THEN tucked into leather biker boots. A wallet hangs on the obligatory pocket chain.

The only thing that is missing is a spiked dog collar and some miscellaneous leather jewelry.

And what, pray tell, does this paragon of toughness order?

A tall strawberries and creme frappuccino and a slice of lemon pound cake.

Obviously, it was sweet tooth night at the biker bar.