So we’re sitting there, me eating my grilled chicken sandwich and my friend eating his nuggets or whatever when out of nowhere this crackwhore sidles up to our table and sits down.

(not the actual crackwhore we encountered, but pretty damn close)
I just look at her like “what the fuck?”.

“Excuse me?” I say, frightened and confused.

“Can I get fitty cents?” asked the crackwhore.

“No, go away,” I replied, disgusted by this poor example of humanity.

“But I just wants a Coke”, retorted the crackwhore.

“No.  Go away,” I repeated, “Go away.”

“Mang, fuck you,” she said, getting up and sauntering over to another patron to bother.

Seriously, what the fuck?

There, I said it.  I finally admitted that I have a substance “use” problem (I’m not quite ready to admit that it’s “abuse” even though I have to do it at least twice a day).

Some people, to paraphrase the late Bradley Nowell (and, ultimately, Michael and Chris Kay of The Toyes), smoke two joints in the morning and smoke two joints in the evening and may even smoke a couple in the afternoon to make them feel all right.  I, on the other hand, drink a cup of coffee in the morning, drink a cup in the evening and occasionally even have one in the afternoon to make me feel alert and jittery.

The funny thing is, I didn’t learn this from watching my parents–they didn’t drink coffee.  I didn’t start until a couple of years into college.  And even then, I couldn’t stand straight coffee…I was a wuss and had to have it flavored.  So Sweet Eugene’s in College Station got a lot of my hard-earned (or given to me by the government thanks to education grants) cash for delicious Snickers lattes (which, upon my last visit to College Station, were not nearly as tasty as I remembered).

So, almost every morning, I get up, get dressed and head out to work, with a stop at Dunkin’ Donuts (so much better than the swill that Starbucks calls coffee) for a cuppa.

And, without fail, I get there almost every day after this guy and his two kids.  And these are the most indecisive fucks ever.

They always order a dozen donuts to split amongst themselves (dad’s totally setting up his kids for a life of obesity) and three drinks (do your school-aged kids really need coffee?).

But the thing is, they can never decide what types of donuts to get.  They go through all the permutations, exasperating the guy behind the counter.  And me.  And everyone else in line.

Five minutes.  I timed it.  That’s how long it took them this morning to decide what kind of sugary fried bread to get.

Fucktards.

We’re in a hurry, back here.  Gotta get to work.  Get the day started.  Need caffeine to live.  Settle on a selection of donuts and get it every day.  Don’t let your kids hem and haw…you’re their dad..put your foot down and say “We’re getting a dozen glazed, you little shits”.

Some of us have addictions to feed.

Some favorites:

A Nov. 26 article in the District edition of Local Living incorrectly said a Public Enemy song declared 9/11 a joke. The song refers to 911, the emergency phone number.

IN my column on August 22 I suggested that Sharon Osbourne was an unemployed, drugaddled, unfit mum with a litter of feral kids. This was not intended to be taken literally. I fully accept she is none of these things and sincerely apologise to Sharon and her family for my unacceptable comments. Sorry Sharon…

This article was amended on Tuesday 20 January 2009. In our entry on Garrison Keillor’s Lake Wobegon Days, we referred to a Prairie Ho Companion; we meant a Prairie Home Companion. This has been corrected.

Garrison Keillor loves him some pussy, obviously.

Just sayin’. That’s all.

Does he have swine flu? Avian flu? Did SARS (remember that?) make a comeback?

Who knows? All I know is that it’s fucking annoying, probably exposing me to the Yellow fever and making my eyes feel slanty.

At least he’s not farting constantly, like this guy that used to work in the next cube over. He got fired a couple of years ago, supposedly for laziness and lack of skills (or mad-skillz), but I know the real reason: constant wet farting.

Oh well, back to the grind. The spice must flow. Or something like that.

“Would you like to balue size it?”
“with one-thousand Iceland dressing?”

From some random white trash person waiting in line and wearing scrubs:

“whenever I come to Dallas, I always get Chicken-flay”