THE EYES HAVE IT

[First off, let us congratulate Hey, Jenny Slater for their win as Funniest Sports Blog in the CFBAS. Good show! Also, as Marchifornication rolls on, we're going to loosen things up with a little non sports freestylin' that the kids so adore. Enjoy!]

Hey, Crazy-Eyed Coffee Barista at Starbucks - You creep me the fuck out and I'm not the only one. Don't tell me you can't see it too. It doesn't take Daphne Blake to figure this shit out. No one wants to get in your line because of your fucking Manson Lamps, Sis. Maybe they won't say anything but I will. All I want is a little coffee and a brief respite from life, nothing more. If I could, I'd get my coffee from a robot. This is actually not a bad idea, they wouldn't even have to talk. You could just tap a few buttons, like, you know, a cash register? Then the robot could be all "do do doooo- beep bong--blurpityy bloop!" and bring you your Venti Skinny Decaf Macadamia Nut Iced Chai Soy Latte. I bet R2D2 wouldn't try to burn your hand with boiling coffee when it slid it across the bar at you either, nor would it try to make you give it a dollar because it just handed you a cup of coffee which cost you $5.07. But I digress.

I have to ask, do you honestly not notice that the plain girl with the mismatched socks always has at least 7 people in her line and you never have more than 1? It's not because we feel like standing in a line. She's not exactly fabulous, and to be honest, I'm a little tired of her game as well, now that you mention it. If I liked the smell of damp wool, bitter coffee, and granola-laced piss, I'd hang out with Bear Grylls. Why are her socks always wool? Why are they mismatched? That's not ironic. It's sad. How do you think the socks feel (other than damp from sweating out last night's cloves and cosmos)? They never know when they're gonna be in action. They're like a pair of desperate migrant workers, standing on the corner, hoping they'll get picked, so they can ride to the farm in the back of an old pick-up, only to work all day for pocket change and an orange for lunch*. As if their life isn't hard enough, you have to split them up? Not cool, Socks. Not cool at all. But that being said, you're a fucking breath of fresh air compared to Saucers.

So you've been there like, what, a year now? I've only been in your line 4 times. Does this seem odd to you? Do you think I come in there for your eyes to burn a hole in my face? So, your eyes are fucked up, deal with it. Wear an eye patch or a monocle, I don't give a fuck, but your eyes aren't my problem so get that shit correct, High-Beams. The least you could do is handle your job with a little pluck. I mean, when I have had the misfortune to come in your line it's been a disaster every time. The first time you were all "I can help someone over here..." and I waited because I was in the back of the line and I assumed someone ahead of me would go over. I should have known there was a problem when they collectively tried to look busy all of a sudden. They're grabbing their cells and looking at the nearest free paper like it's their rich uncle's will. So I came over to your line and you were all "HEY!" and I was all 'hey' and then I ordered a coffee and you said you were out. I knew then it wasn't going to work out for us.

(please sir, could I have some more?)

The second time was this spring when I ordered an Iced Mocha. As if that doesn't carry enough shame, I had to order it from you. Socks was gone that day and the Bosnian Lennon-lookin dude from the drive-thru was working the register. That guy's a fucking champ. He can handle the drive-thru and a register with panache. Maybe it's because he DOESN'T SPEAK! Anyway, I was tired and it was unseasonably hot that day. I remember it because fucking North Carolina had just lost and busted my perfect NCAA Bracket and I was a little crabby and hungover. So I ordered my Iced Mocha and stared vacantly at your illegible poorly lighted signage while you made it. It seemed to be working because you actually did your job, quietly, and made me my drink. I paid for it and as you pretended to hand it to me, you paused when the cup was just within my reach and said, "do yuh liyek CHOCK-LATE?" And you got me. I had nothing to say. What the fuck did you ask me that for? So I just grumbled, "no, I'm allergic to it, but I'm self-abusive..." which was a mistake. I never meant to engage you, and you positively guffawed, and then I sloppily followed it up with, "I used to be a cutter but now I only hurt myself on the inside." Which, I don't even know what that means and I'm not even sure it makes any sense. You ate that shit up though. You were laughing at my gruff joke like I was Bernie Mac at the Apollo. I just grabbed the sissy drink and left. I didn't even go back into your store for a month. I drove out of my way to avoid your (possibly) thyroid-enhanced stare.

Then last week, when I came in, Socks was slow and higher than usual and I got bamboozled. Poorly-tailored linen suit guy was in front of me. He was on his fucking Bluetooth talking about Pork Bellies and you motioned for him. He may not have looked sharp but he was onto you. You pointed your claw at him and he literally ducked out of the way, like you fired at him with a laser cat. Well, it hit me straight in the chest but we all knew you meant it for him. So I motioned for him to go 'head and he had the stones to shake me off. Then he nodded me toward you like I was a punk. So I looked right at him and said, "You're busy. I got all the time in the world. You. Go." And I stood my ground. He knew he was beat, so he went into your line but I'll be a son-of-a-bitch if Socks' register didn't go down. So fuck it, I hopped into your line. I get up there and ordered my coffee, but this time, I looked right into your face. I swear to god I couldn't pick you out of a lineup. I literally have no idea what you look like. All I can see is those milky boiling lollipops trying to soulrape me. Just before you turned to get my coffee is when it happened. You said, "I liyek-it when you wear that shiiiiirtt..." it was a dirty, sweat-streaked wring-neck t-shirt. It was fucking gray. And my blood ran cold. I felt like John Wayne Gacy's paperboy. I knew then, with certainty, that one day you were going to kill me.

The minute I left, I called a confidant and told them that if I went missing, it was the Crazy-Eyed Coffee Barista at Starbucks. I didn't give a description or a name, I just said to tell the police it was the one with the crazy eyes and they'd walk in and know. I haven't been in there since but I was desperate today so I went in. This was a mistake.

You know the drill - Socks had 9 people in her line, Wilbanks had 1. What you don't know is, today Socks was wearing a saucy burberry beret, which is nice. Nothing says "I make delicious coffee can I help you?" more than a heavily Xanaxed, sweaty, jet black arm-haired, dimwit, with filthy fingers. I was tired of the game so I just marched right up to Wilbanks.

C-ECB: HEY!

Jebus: hey.

C-ECB: You want the youse-U-uhl?

[Jebus does international symbol for WHA? by spreading arms out, palms up, at waist level]

Jebus: What is my usual?

C-ECB:
ICED MO-CHA!!!1

Jebus: No. Coffee. A big one.

C-ECB: mkay! Room for...

[Jebus interrupts]

Jebus: No room for cream. I don't even want room for air in that cup.

[she guffaws with more than a titch of madness]

C-ECB: MKAY!!!1

[she turns to get coffee, pours it into cup, carafe runs out half-an-inch from top]
[Jebus looks at ground, knows he deserves this]

C-ECB: No PROB! I'll just make MORE!

Jebus: It's cool. I gotta go. That's fine.

C-ECB: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO WAY! Too much AYERRRRRR in this cup!

[he looks at door, considers leaving, but addiction is too strong]

[she begins to prattle as she makes more coffee]

C-ECB: I'm a big Hawk fan too!

[he looks around confused]

Jebus: Wha?

[she's off to the races, tearing into this monologue like Pacino on mescaline]

C-ECB: I know you're a Hawkeye fan. I see you reading about them on your laptop sometimes. You probably think we don't notice but we do. Sometimes when you're not here we talk about you. We try to figger out what your story is. Lammy*** thinks you're a writer but sometimes you're all sweaty and scruffy and dirty so I think you do some type of labor thingee but then you almost always have a laptop so we just can't figger you out!! We TRY THOUGH!!! So did you go to Iowa? I bet you did. I wanted to go there but I couldn't get in. We wouldn't have been there at the same time because you're older than me... how old do you think I am? I bet you think I'm younger than I am but I'm really 26, I know! people always say I'm like 18 or 22 or whatever but I'm not...

[without stopping to breath, she continues her monologue and she FINALLY slides coffee over counter to him, he puts his money on the counter and slides it across, careful not to get her touch on him]

C-ECB:
SO ... OH MAH GAWD!!!! I HAVE THE BEST IDEA!!! WE. NEED. TO. GO. TO. A. GAME! TOGETHER.

What did you do Jebus?

I did what any man would do. I waited until she turned her back and I went for the door. I think I may have mowed down a small Asian man on my way, I really don't know, I had to get out of there. I felt like I was being held under water. Hot, salty, oppressive, water, and I could see the surface, but there wasn't sunlight there, it was the blazing sun I was trying to escape from below. On the surface, there was darkness, and safety, and freedom, so I ran, I ran away from the light, and when I got out the door, I think I may have cried a little, and I threw my coffee onto the sidewalk and I drove home, I don't remember the drive, in fact, I don't even know how I got here at all, I just know that my door is locked, my blinds are closed, and I'm never fucking going back in there again.
Never again.

* I'm not really sure what they get for lunch. I never see them with a little lunchbox or a napsack, like a Hobo**, but I picture them stopping work for just a second to wipe the sweat from their brow with damaged filthy hands, only to find the boss striding toward them, shouting only, "5 MINUTES!" with a stern glare then he flips the poor gentle souls an orange, for brunch.

** I fucking love that word. We don't say Hobo enough.

*** I don't know, my stenographer had the day off, but I honestly think she referred to Socks as "Lammy".

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