Wednesday, May 5, 2010
GoodTime Gramps hate Starbucks kids!
They are entitled to the space. Everybody needs a vacation. I just wish they would aim the children's voices an octave or two lower.
Every pane of glass for miles around is likely falling to the ground in shards as we speak. If the noise keeps up, I may find a piece to run across my wrists and relieve me of this horror. I'd rather watch a Sandra Bullock film than listen to this ......
An aged crone - a WOACA - comes in. She's being escorted by another aged side of beef (and I stress the aged beef) that's trying to pass for 40 when it must be darn near 70. His pants are tight enough to cut off what circulation is left in those regions - even the little blue pill ain't gonna bring that back to life - and the shirt is unbuttoned down to the navel. There's a few chains swishing around the grizzled hairs on his chest.
She's just as bad. If not worse. Some sort of high-waisted cross between capris and jeans - all in white - trying to recapture those virginal years of her faraway past it seems. The top is almost cute, in that it would be attractive on a younger woman not trying to play the coquette. It is white and yellow and black and might have a pattern of trees.
I don't look. I'm distracted by what she's doing with the straw on her frappuccino. She ordered a tall mocha frappuccino and asked for extra whipped cream. YellowGranny didn't want the barista to put a lid on the frappuccino, but apparently they have to.
YellowGranny pops the lid off first thing, plunges the straw into the whipped cream and goes to town with an orgiastic expression on her face. She's licking with all the glee of a small child being handed the biggest mixing bowl and spoon in the kitchen. GoodTime Gramps is fondling the small of her back and I really don't want to know where his fingers are going.
"I HATE THOSE KIDS DON'T YOU!" she splats out to him. I'm right next to them, but they don't care that I can hear this. "Somebody ought to do something about them kids," he mutters. And he looks menacingly in that direction.
"Why don't they make them shut up," she whines to him. "This is the best drink I've had all year and they are ruining it for me." Um, drama much?
"Somebody ought to drop a chair on them. That would make them stop." That's from him. "Have you ever been to Mexico?" he asks her. "They're all over the tables there. Crawling, running, screaming. Brats. All of them."
While it is true that children in Hispanic cultures are .... "indulged" ... I might not go this far.
"HEY YOU!" I studiously look at my laptop. I want no part of this. But she's calling over GrumpyBarista. "GO OVER THERE AND TELL THEM TO SHUT THE HELL UP!"
He is suitably taken aback and tries to laugh it off.
GoodTime Gramps is agitated in the extreme now and YellowGranny isn't much better. She's moaning about the noise and telling him "Go over there ask them to shut up. I want to drink this in peace." Because that is going to be so helpful.
He looks at them, looks at her and says "There's three men. I don't think I'd win." He's stupid, but not that stupid.
YellowGranny is noisily sucking on her frappuccino. I've never seen anyone work on a frappuccino with quite such ... pleasure ... before. She's got about a third of the drink left in the cup and she's twirling the drink around with her straw and then sticking out her tongue, wrapping it around the straw and sucking. When she slurps up frappuccino, she closes her eyes and moans slightly, as if in some sort of orgiastic glee. I slink in closer to the wall. I want no part of this.
Finally, she pulls what's left of the frappuccino up into her aged and lined mouth and sighs again. A deep, contented sigh. I half expect her to ask for a cigarette.
I hunt for a shower to wash off the stupidity.