I know that I did, and I got two responses:
"Who's that?"
and
"The Smiths were okay, but why would you want to see Morrissey?"
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
She loves you NOT.
It's the average Sunday night at your favorite chain restaurant.
You politely ask for a that chicken and bacon thing.
She stands there and makes "that chicken and bacon thing," but with this attitude, this look as if to say:
Not only did you offer sexual favors to my boyfriend, and to my dad,
BUT YOU PROPOSITIONED MY DOG TOO?!
no..I can't prove it..
..but I know all about you!"
It's the average Sunday night at your favorite chain restaurant.
You politely ask for a that chicken and bacon thing.
She stands there and makes "that chicken and bacon thing," but with this attitude, this look as if to say:
Not only did you offer sexual favors to my boyfriend, and to my dad,
BUT YOU PROPOSITIONED MY DOG TOO?!
no..I can't prove it..
..but I know all about you!"
Regular Customer
A Tuesday afternoon at your favorite chain restaurant. The doorbell alerts me to the presence of a hungry patron. I shuffle up to the hand washing sink, greet the customer, wash hands, wrestle with fingers of my food preparation gloves.
I stand at the appointed place, with the knife and paper in front of me.
An ordinary middle-aged individual of below average looks.
He stretches his neck out and squints at the menu above my head.
A signal to show he has not decided-- more effort than necessary.
Seconds pass, he looks in my general direction.
He asks, "Can I get a..."
--"AYE AYE AYE!", interrupted Ozzy Osbourne.
A ring tone.
The man clumsily grabs for his cell; his doughy arms shifting to left pocket and right.
"Hullo?"
His poorly drawn tattoos were covered in a haze of ginger colored hair.
(Some people think a t-shirt with torn off sleeves and a camouflage trucker hat is a good look.)
I wait quietly, patiently.
"Just gettin' some subs, ya want anything?"
I wait patiently.
A Tuesday afternoon at your favorite chain restaurant. The doorbell alerts me to the presence of a hungry patron. I shuffle up to the hand washing sink, greet the customer, wash hands, wrestle with fingers of my food preparation gloves.
I stand at the appointed place, with the knife and paper in front of me.
An ordinary middle-aged individual of below average looks.
He stretches his neck out and squints at the menu above my head.
A signal to show he has not decided-- more effort than necessary.
Seconds pass, he looks in my general direction.
He asks, "Can I get a..."
--"AYE AYE AYE!", interrupted Ozzy Osbourne.
A ring tone.
The man clumsily grabs for his cell; his doughy arms shifting to left pocket and right.
"Hullo?"
His poorly drawn tattoos were covered in a haze of ginger colored hair.
(Some people think a t-shirt with torn off sleeves and a camouflage trucker hat is a good look.)
I wait quietly, patiently.
"Just gettin' some subs, ya want anything?"
I wait patiently.