Oh, God, Another Starbucks Post

Thursday morning I was in a Starbucks, not the one I've written about before, sitting at a table close to the worker's station. I was enjoying my dark roast regular coffee in a feeble effort to make up for girly drinks of the past when I heard a girl tell a co-worker "Oh, no. Here comes 'Boobies.'"

I looked toward the door and saw THE ONE THEY CALL BOOBIES, or the two they call Boobies, whatever. She was the stereotypical Vegas broad. She was pushing fifty hard but still insisted on dressing like she's going to a casino-themed party at a sorority house. Her boobs were so big a moon was orbiting them, and they were so obviously fake they bordered on chest-parody. Her face had been lifted so many times her eyebrows were at her hairline. Her makeup was so thick and caked on she made Tammy Faye Baker look like a damn dirty hippie. Also, she walked like she had the Great Wall of China shoved up her ass.

"Good morning, ma'am," an unfortunate Starbucks employee said to the walking reminder to age gracefully. "What can we get started for you."

"Hhhhmmmmmmmmmmm," was the noise that came out of Boobies as she gazed upon the menu she had seen every single day of her life for the past eight fucking years. "I'll (long pause) have a (longer pause) latte with (long enough pause for me to complete a correspondence course in Norwegian literature)...Will you charge me for just a smiggen of hazelnut syrup?"

The employee sighed audibly. "We charge thirty cents for a syrup pump."

"Well, I don't want to become a diabetic," Boobies huffed. "I only want about a quarter of a pump."

"I have to charge you for a full pump, ma'am."

Full pump? Was I at a coffee shop or a whorehouse? Was this Starfucks? At that point I lost track of the exchange between the employee and disgruntled customer. I was momentarily distracted by the horrific sight of Ms. Boobies' nipples. They were huge, they were erect, they were wildly out of place. She must have gotten her tit job at Sears because her nips were on the sides of her breasts. One was pointing up, the other down. The tiny actor who played mini-me and I could have each suckled at a teet, that's how comically asymmetrical they were. Finally, I snapped myself out of the nip-haze and returned to the discourse.

"...and I want a tall(small) in a venti(large) cup," Boobies demanded.

Less than a minute later her order was ready. She looked at the cup and immediately went back to the front of the line, interrupting a lady who was ordering. "This cup is almost empty," she said.

The cashier could barely contain her disgust. "Ma'am, that's because you ordered a tall in a venti cup."

How fucking stupid was Boobies? The last face lift must have squeezed out some of her brain. You mean twelve ounces of beverage doesn't fill a twenty ounce cup? It looks empty, huh? And if I wore John Goodman's pants people would ask if I lost weight.

Why do stupid people descend upon me biblical-plague style like a swarm of locusts? You can't swing a dead whore in this town without smacking an anvil-dumb sack of pus across the face. I'm convinced all of the other town's stupid people move here, threatening to turn Las Vegas from Sin City to Moron Metropolis. In the immortal words of Chef from South Park, "All right, everyone line up so I can start kicking all of your asses!"