The Cock Block

Could this girl be even hotter than the last? She’s looking at me right now – giving me the eye. Not the lazy eye, or the “fuck off” eye either. The signs are all aligned, like 2012. It’s like a slow motion movie scene. Either that or I’m starting to feel slightly buzzed from the whiskey. A sly tap on my friend’s shoulder, with a nod in her direction will allow for friendly reassurance. What do you think? I know, right? Awesome. I need to walk over with a drink in my hand. It’s always good to carry a prop, especially one with beer in it.

“Hey!” yelled the slightly inebriated girl with no particularly great attributes.

“Hi?”

Listen, you seem like a very nice person, but you’re jamming my radar.

“What’s up, I’m Jenny.”

Very nice to meet you. Again, if you could just step out of the way so I can keep an eye on my…shit! Where did she go? I’m not talking to this girl! She’s talking to me! Where is she? Somebody needs to take over this.

“How’s it going?” I say, without a look into her eyes.

“What are you drinking?” she asks as I take a deep chug from my Amstel Light.

“Vodka.”

“You’re funny. How old are you?”

“How old are you?”

“Guess,” she says, with a heavy dose of flirtation.

Honestly she looks anywhere from thirty to forty. So, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Twenty-seven,” I lied.

“Ew, you’re so mean.”

Great, then get the hell out of my way so I can find that girl.

“I’m twenty four!”

“Close.”

“You’re so sarcastic. I love that.”

Jesus Christ, are you serious?

Jesus Christ: "I thought you’d like her."
Me: "No!"
Jesus Christ: "My mistake. See ya in hell."
Me: "Thanks Jesus!"

And he’s gone. Sorry about that. Now, where was I? Oh right, I’m sarcastic. Yes, thanks. I get it.

“Are those Chuck Taylors?”

They clearly are. What is she driving at now?
“Yea.”

“I once had sex with a guy just because he was wearing Chuck Taylors.”

The platter is served. But it’s more like an Applebees entrée, rather than a preferred porterhouse or lobster. Does this come with free dessert? Oh, stop it! You don’t want this. She is way too attainable. There’s nothing wrong with her though. Why does she want to throw herself at me like this? Must be a recent break up. I’m the rebound. I will rebound for no one. Well, unless the N.B.A. was thinking of recruiting five foot ten white guys without any athletic build and a sore shoulder. I could probably rebound for the Knicks or something. But, I will not be her rebound.

“That’s crazy. Did you see my friend?” I responded.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

Don’t make me feel bad. I’m a very caring person. That’s not right. Did you just brush my crouch with your hip? That was pretty cool. Why did you have to come off so easy? That’s disgusting. I mean clearly there’s something wrong with you.

“I’m not trying to get rid of you.”

Where the hell is my friend? There he is! Get over here.

“Jenny, this is Adam.”

There you go. Talk to Adam. That’ll get you off my back. Now, where did that prize go? She must be around here somewhere. Maybe if I continue to talk to Adam and Jenny, make it look like I’m enjoying myself, the hot girl will get jealous.

“So tell Adam what you were saying…”

Jenny? It’s me. The one you were throwing yourself at two seconds ago. Adam, I introduced her to you to say hello. I didn’t tell you to block me out of the conversation. She likes me, not you! At least bring me back into the group so I look important and fun again. Quickly, here she comes. She’s back! She’s looking at me again.

“Jenny?”

Shit! She saw you ignoring me. How do I get out of this situation? Now she thinks I’m a loser, who is here all alone.
Don’t look away. Didn’t you see that I was talking to a girl earlier? She totally wants to sleep with me. That’s my friend Adam. He means nothing to her.

“So, Jenny do you want to get out of here?”

“OK!”

Shit! What the hell was that? I don’t want you. I want her. Adam, talk to her again.

“Actually, I may get another drink.”

“I really want to go though.”

God she is so desperate.

“I’ll walk you home.” Adam interrupted.

“OK!” said Jenny.

Wait a second. Where are you guys going? I can’t stand here alone, and Adam you know I like Jenny. How could you not tell? How did I just go from slam-dunk to the third wheel? Oh, you guys are sharing a cab uptown? That is so not right. You know I live downtown. Yea, yea – have fun you two. I set that up you know. You owe me big, Adam! Jesus, I totally want to sleep with Jenny.

Jesus Christ: “I told you. Now you’re fucked.”
Me: “Yes, thanks God.”
Jesus Christ: “Its just Jesus.”

The Hot Chick

I can’t remember why I got out of bed today. My Asian neighbors are in the hallway screaming in…Asian? I can’t write. I can’t even keep my eyes open. If it wasn’t for the screaming I’d be in bed sleeping. What time is it anyway? Oh shit. It’s 2P.M. Well, this has been a productive day. Let’s see, I brushed my teeth…I…That’s all I did. I need to get out of here.

I still can’t remember why I awoke in the first place. Maybe a coffee will lift my spirits. I’ll have to try the local café…

Sweet Jesus of Nazareth. She could be the hottest girl on the planet. Suddenly my reasoning for getting up and going out has been quickly brought to my attention. Heart rate increasing. Sweating profusely. Nerves…nerving? Oh my God, she’s so hot. Please look at me. Is she looking at me? She could be pretending not to look at me, but secretly is looking at me in the corner of her eye. I bet that’s what she’s doing. I’ll just casually turn toward her and show her I notice her disguised gaze.

OK, so she’s reading a novel. Yes, I know, you’re way out of my league. You’re perfect. You’re absolutely one hundred percent my type. Why should you look at me? Was that a look? Fuck.

Alright, I’m going to sit down and enjoy this coffee. I’ll put her out of mind. She isn’t even real. She doesn’t exist. I have to look. She’s so hot. OK, one more quick look then back to the coffee. Are you kidding me? That is the sexiest body I’ve ever seen. Do you have any idea how hot you are? Who the hell made you? A God of some sort?

Come on, really? How could you not have noticed me for like at least a second. I’m good enough for a one second look over. I’m not repulsive. In fact, I’ve been told how cute I am on several occasions. One look. Go ahead. Was that a look? What the fuck? How good can that book possibly be? What are you reading? I can’t read the title. Let me just squint and see what you’re reading.

No! No, I wasn’t staring at you. I wanted to see what you were reading! Please don’t give me that look. I just wanted to know what you were reading. Great! Now she thinks I’ve been sitting here gawking at her, and thinking about her this entire time. That’s preposterous. I’m just enjoying my coffee. Do you honestly think you’re that hot that I would want to stare at you this whole time?

Wait a second. Was twirling of the hair with your left hand a sign? Are you subconsciously telling me that you appreciate the stare and maybe even find me attractive in some way? I may be on to something here. I know! I’ll grab a copy of The Onion. She’ll see me laughing and enjoying the articles, and subsequently know that I have a great sense of humor. Hot chicks love that, right?

Oh man this article that I’m reading is so funny. Hey, look at me laughing at this article. I’m not laughing too hard, but enough to know that I have a sophisticated, witty sense of humor. Nothing over the top. After all, this is the Onion – not Jay Leno.

Ugh, I can’t believe how perfect her face is. How can you have flawless bone structure, gorgeous eyes, luscious lips, in addition to that body? Stop reading that damn book! Acknowledge me!

I need to walk over there. That’s it! I’m just going to walk over and say something to her. No, I shouldn’t bother her. She’s reading her book. Her boyfriend is probably working hard on Wall Street. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here wasting my day in a café staring at his prize. I knew I should have switched majors to finance.

That was totally a sign. You deliberately crossed your legs in my direction. It wasn’t a crazy Sharon Stone cross, but it was most certainly a “Hey, look at my legs” cross. Well, I noticed it baby. Don’t you worry. You don’t think I have the balls to get up and walk over there? Well, watch this.

I can’t do it. Why do I have to initiate the conversation? Why can’t you? I bet you haven’t had the courtesy to initiate one conversation in your entire life. Everyone comes up to you. How spoiled you are. You know what? I’m not going to be like every other guy. I’m going to sit here and ignore you for the rest of the day. I’ve seen better. You’re average at best. Back to The Onion.

“Excuse me. Do you know if there’s an outlet in here?” the beauty asked.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic! Is there an outlet in here? What is she really insinuating? Is this an innuendo? She is definitely just trying to open a conversation with me. I knew it! If you ignore her, she will come. I win!
“Ugh, I’m not sure. What do you need an outlet for?”

“My computer. OK, I’ll just ask the waitress.”

Is that it? Do you want to talk some more? Wait, don’t go!

“What are you reading?”

“The Lost Symbol.”

What the hell is that? I don’t read real novels. Why did I even ask that? I don’t have a follow up question for that.

“Who wrote that?”

“Dan Brown.”

What an idiot. I should have known that. He’s the most popular writer in the past five years. Of course I haven’t read any of his novels. The movies sucked. I’m done. She’s leaving. Holy shit, she is even hotter standing up. I can’t take it. I need to do something. I’m getting out of here. No, don’t leave. Man up.
“Do you want to have some coffee?”

“I just had a cup.”

“Oh, me too.”

She’s laughing. That was a cute joke. She likes it. I’m so in.
“So, do you live around here?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“Down the street.”

“Cool. What are you writing?”

“It’s a book. Mostly comedy.”

“Oh, that’s awesome. Did you see The Hangover?”

Oh come on! How can people think that’s funny?! Don’t even get me started. I have to lie to her. I’m not losing her over this. I will forego my pride and pretend I enjoyed the movie.
“Great movie!” (with fake smile.)

“Oh my God, right? My boyfriend hated it! He’s more into like Woody Allen, Larry David, and all that other smart, funny stuff.”

And that’s it. You’ve officially shattered my heart. You have a boyfriend and he has a real appreciation for comedy. I can’t even be mad at him. If only we had met before you started dating him. I could’ve bored you with those Woody Allen movies. I could’ve pretended to like The Hangover with you. I could’ve disappointed you in bed.

“Are you OK?”

“Me? I’m fine.”

“You look upset.”

“Nope. Fine.”

And that was that. She broke my heart. She broke my heart. You’re not even that hot. What’s with that mole thing on your face? Your nose is pretty crooked too. By the way, don’t you work? My God your arms are flabby. I’m getting out of here. Why is she even talking to me? Go bore your boyfriend. I feel bad for him. He’s probably cheating on you as we speak. I’m so out of this chick’s league. I'm out of here...

“Wait, where are you going?”

“Have to get back to work. Was nice meeting you…”

“Mandy.”

Wow, that name is so hot. Shit, I should stay. She’s so damn hot. Ugh, she’s wearing high heels too? Look at her abs. I didn’t even see that…

The Card Hander-Outer

These guys are at every street corner, outside every barbershop, and of course recruiting for that class-A “Gentlemen’s Club.” Which quickly brings me to my first tangent. Why are strip clubs called gentlemen’s clubs? Has it become a gentlemanly trait to stare at a woman’s tits while trying to land dollar bills on the stage from ten feet away? The only gentlemanly thing I’ll ever do at a strip club is look at that forty-something year old beat up stripper just so she doesn’t think she repulses me (which she does.) But, I feel bad. I mean I want the little dignity remaining with her to at least last the next two years. I think that may be about the only gentlemanly thing that occurs at a strip club - the courtesy look of interest out of pity.

Anyway, to get back on track to the guys who hand out those cards or flyers. They’re usually some poor schmuck or Mexican immigrant, who can care less about annoying the general population, so long as they make five dollars an hour under the table. I don’t blame them entirely, but do owners really see an increase in profits from these people? I’ll be walking down the street, thinking up the best way to justify being an hour late to work, when all of a sudden a card is offered to me. Now, I will instinctually grab one out of every twenty-five cards handed to me. In fact, they throw it out there so quick; I may even accidentally grab it if it was a used condom. Let’s hope Trojan doesn’t start an out of the box guerrilla marketing campaign this way.

So I have the card in my hand. It’s a five-dollar psychic reading. How karmic that this is placed into my hands. Certainly this is ingenious marketing by Chloe, the psychic. Really though? Do I even need to get started on this? First of all, for those of you who actually think there are supernatural people out there who can read the future, there aren’t. It’s a big scam! Even if these people do exist. How great can a five-dollar psychic be? A Doublecone from Mr. Softee costs more than that, and the only prediction a Doublecone yields, is that you will need to use the bathroom within an hour. If this person were legitimately capable of reading your deepest thoughts, your love life, and your future, wouldn’t they be paid more than a psychologist? Of course not. They would only pay that person five dollars for their time. That is all one’s life is worth according to Chloe’s pay scale.

The cards vary from psychic to religious jargon. I would like to speak on behalf of the average pedestrian. I have nothing against you personally, but next time you see me just skip me. I don’t feel like saying, “sorry,” or “no thanks,” when you hand me a dollar off for a foot rub card. Let me give the card-hander-outer man a tip of advice. You can cut out the middleman by simply tossing your stack of cards directly into the nearest trashcan. Because let’s be honest, nobody holds on to those things for longer than a block and a half. They are sloppily folded in half, sometimes more than once, and quickly dispersed of by the time we reach the next trash can. And hey, if you’re all out of cards, then you’ve done your job, and you should still get paid. Now that’s win, win.

The Crack Addict

There is no smooth transition into describing this guy. He is as abrupt as an unplanned pregnancy. He is like a child who lost his way. A loner, with a deeply disturbed past. His demeanor is…

Addict: “That’s the problem with the white man!”
Me: “I’m sorry?”
A: “You shouldn’t watch the chickens run!”
M: “What chickens?”
A: “I saw the bus coming. Don’t you tell me about the bus stop! I’m a grown man. Fuck you!”
M: “You spit on me.”
A: “Excabible dad grosh.”
M: “That’s not English…Well, I suppose dad is a word.”
A: “The fuck you ain’t.”
M: “I should be going now.”
A: “God bless you.”

What a nice man.

The Degenerate Gambler

While it’s depressing just how low this guy can sink, I can’t help but love this all too familiar personality. I’ve sat down on a Saturday afternoon, with an ambient unknown college football game on in the background. I won’t ask why the game is on, because I assume no one is watching. Suddenly, I’m startled with an unexpected outburst from a nearby friend.

“Fuck you Boise State!”

“Really? You bet on Boise State?” I asked.

“No, are you kidding? I bet Hawaii would have the first field goal.”

So, just to clarify, my friend, who has never been to Hawaii or Boise State…In fact, I’d bet a hundred dollars he doesn’t even know where Boise State is. No, Sean I don’t actually want to bet you on that. I’m just making a point. Anyway, he made a bet that Hawaii would make the first field goal of the game. This is what I’d call a minor degenerate. It’s pathetic. It’s absurd. But, I’ve seen worse. You have ways to go Sean. Oh sorry, that’s his name. Let me introduce you to a real degenerate.

This next degenerate gambler is one of my favorites. If you ever want to escape Manhattan, without actually leaving the city, go to Chatham Square in China Town. Then venture into the O.T.B. (Off Track Betting.) Now, you’ll have to know the lingo, the tracks, and knowing the horses may help. Fortunately, I had a friend working behind the glass. He explained how to bet, and I still didn’t understand. Of course I pretended to know what was going on. After all, degenerate gamblers encircled me, and I didn’t want to disappoint. Give me the three horse at Belmont – straight up. Loser. Whatever, I don’t have a clue what’s going on. I’m not the degenerate here. Well, at least not today.

The main reason for my trek was to see what it’d be like to live in Beijing, and to see what this OTB was all about. Plus, I got to bullshit with my buddy. We started to talk, about nothing in particular, when an extra from Goodfellas approached the glass. I’m not even trying to be funny. This was a legitimate extra from Goodfellas. I’ve seen the movie countless times.

He was adorned with black pants, a black T, and topped off with a top hat. He wasn’t very tall, but his presence was unmistakable. First of all, he was the only Italian guy in Chinatown that night. Well actually there were three others, but we didn’t look Italian like he did. This guy was old school Mulberry St. He paced and bantered with everyone who crossed his path. Nobody knew what he was saying, and he obviously didn’t know what the Chinese folk were saying. So it was a mutual misunderstanding. He had bet the three horse, like me, only this three horse was from Yonkers. Wait a second. He meant to bet the three at Lone Star. Woops. My friend may be bright, but he’s not very attentive it seems.

“That fuckin’ jerk off gave me Yonkers!”

He makes it sound like a venereal disease. I would hate to have an upstate New York STD. It sounds pretty boring and overpriced.

The degenerate went on and on, tearing into my friend over the wrong betting ticket. He even contradicted himself on occasion, discussing with Ping and Yang how the kid isn’t so bad – he just made a mistake. It’s not totally his fault.

The race on his ticket came and went. He did not win. He wouldn’t even have won his original bet. He’s an all around loser. In more ways than one.

“Ah fuck him! He’s a fuckin’ moron!” he concluded.

Obviously another bet was overdue. Try the four horse at Santa Clara. Surely this horse is pulling for you. Now the events that proceeded are not made up or exaggerated. His horse went neck and neck with the two horse. Literally, they were nose to nose. It would take a magnifying glass to determine the winner.

“I’m going to have a heart attack!” he yelled. “I don’t know why I keep coming back here!”

He turned to Ping, who had an amiable grin painted on his face. “What are you smiling at?”

“You win?” Ping asked, sincerely.

“I hope you die in your sleep!” the man answered.

Ping didn’t understand a word he said. He nodded his head and continued about his own degenerate ways.

“Please God, let me win this bet. I won’t make another bet in my life.” The man continued.

Hey, God? I know we haven’t exactly started off on the right foot, but here’s a little advice: I wouldn’t make that bet with him. He’s definitely lying. OK, suit yourself. After twenty minutes of deliberation, the man’s horse was declared the winner. Praise the Lord! Maybe prayers can be answered after all (Can you sell this book for me God?) Hey Goodfella, you should go to mass and thank God for this substantial win (like $40.) And remember, you promised not to bet again in your life.

Hey, you didn’t have to push me. It was too late. The man put his $40 on the next race. It may have been the seven horse at Belmont, or the nine at Yonkers. It didn’t matter. This guy was in a never-ending cycle of gambling. His appetite would not be content, until his misery reached its peak. He still had money in his pocket, and that could only mean one thing – place a bet.

There is a moral to this story somewhere and that is to never trust an OTB clerk. Well that and gambling is a horrible, addicting disease. However, I couldn’t imagine a world without characters like these. Sure they’re suffering, but at what cost? Their loved ones? Their own self-respect? Yes. But, man what an entertaining Saturday evening it was for me. And that’s all that really matters, right?

The Douchey Co-worker

We will typically spot this person in an office environment. You’ve heard of people that are, “by the book.” This person is the book. They enjoy reading, routine, and routine. They seem to lack any sort of personality whatsoever. Wait, is that a personality? I feel like they are faking it. Like they’re a compilation of flesh, organs, and bone, but what happened to the human soul? Well, if you actually believe in a soul…

“Did you just make a comment against religion?”

“No. I love religion.”

“Good. That would be blasphemous.”

Sorry about that. Anyway, this person fails to understand the laid-back personality types, the creative person that lies inside of us all, and the occasional vulgar joke. I’ll be right back. I need to take a piss.

“What did you say?”

“I mean I need to use the washroom…”

“You’re excused.”

OK, I’m back. So, I wonder if this person ever made a racist joke, got drunk on a whim, or farted in public. That grin on his face makes me want to puke. Does he realize that he’s making that grin? It’s like there is a surgically placed kabob in his ass, and he enjoys it. Not too much. Just enough to allow for this grin of his. And that can’t be a genuine laugh. He’s forcing himself to laugh. No man reaches a point of comical ecstasy with an abhorrent outburst like that. I shouldn’t even use the word outburst. I mean miniscule, irritating chuckle.

What I’d like to know is where are these people raised? I would have to say somewhere like Connecticut or Rhode Island. They seem like a safe place to raise a child without any sort of outside influences from actual human beings. What are the conditions in which they’re raised? I imagine sitting around the dinner table making wise cracks at one another isn’t the typical dinner setting. So, what do they talk about? Perhaps they discuss politics, logic, and different shades of golf shirts. I must say, pink is the new green.

Is he making fun of me back, or is he not capable of vengeful thoughts? I wonder if he thinks I’m immature and useless to society. Granted I am, but I don’t want him thinking that about me. At the same time, I don’t want to hate him, but he leaves me no choice. I’d rather like him, than hate him. Maybe we can get along after all. I doubt it.

Are there actual people buried beneath the façade, or is this all we’re going to get? Maybe there is an ethnic humorist, like George Lopez but funny, waiting to erupt out from the pale skin Chester McGinley. By the way, I completely made that name up. It sounds pretty lame though. No offense to the Chester McGinleys out there who are reading this.

Now these people thrive in corporate environments. In fact, it’s likely that they will rise to the top and be your boss at the dead end job you’re stuck in. So yea, they’re in the same boring building as you day in and day out, but they’re making more money than you – and subsequently more successful than you. How does that make you feel? If you haven’t decided yet, I’ll answer for you. Sick. Because they kissed enough ass, nodded their head, and agreed to their superiors enough times to put them in that comfy corner office with a view. And let’s be honest, who doesn’t want that corner office? I could totally stare out that window for hours and daze about nothing, while collecting serious corporate dollars. Plus, I can finally eat at that pricey steakhouse across the street. For lunch! Sweet!

Now that I think about it, I wonder if this person has already thought this through. Maybe they’re way ahead of me. Perhaps they know that if they approach life in such a manner, than they will eventually have a sweet steakhouse lunch. Come to think of it, I may be going about life all wrong.

“Did you just have an out-of-the-box thought?”

“No.”

“Good. OK, well I’m going to go home to my wife and talk about my day at work. Can’t wait to see who they’ll vote off Dancing With the Stars tonight. See you tomorrow morning.”

On second thought, I’ll stick with Type B Personality. Sorry Chester. You’re not making comments about me with your other Type A friends, are you?

The Old Ladies Meeting At Coffee Shop

While stepping away from their daily block of Judge Judy, Oprah, and Bridge games, the Sexless and the City meet up to discuss their alcoholic daughter-in-law and the extravagantly overpriced coffee they’re sipping. It’s an exclusive club. The qualifications? Have a grandson to brag about, be skilled in the art of gossip, and awful with technology. The players? Old ladies. Why no, I’m not using this chair. You may borrow it. You’re quite welcome. Aren’t they so cute?

Their styles are as stubborn as their attitude toward abortion. I wonder when was the last time they got laid. Oh God, why did I put that image in my head? Megan Fox. Megan Fox. OK, I’m better. It must be nice to just sit at a café on a Wednesday afternoon. Shouldn’t you be sewing or making people wait extra longer in the grocery line while you count out your change to the exact penny? I shouldn’t be mean. I wonder if they’ll let me join in on their gossip. One of them is looking at me right now. I hope they’re not talking about me already.

Hold the presses, Janette’s niece is in the school play, Shrek. I hope she isn’t the lead. It’s this Friday at eight o’clock if anyone’s interested. She’s really talented. You should hear her sing. She got that from Janette’s side of the family. Her father isn’t very talented. He’s more of a pushover. I don’t even know why Janette’s daughter married him. She settled down way too early. But hey, at least he gave her two cute kids right? I guess you can’t complain.

There is way too much cream cheese on the bagel. Is your bagel soggy too? Rose’s bagel is really mushy. I don’t know why people eat here. No matter how many times you tell them not to over-do-it on the cream cheese – what do they do? They load it up with cream cheese. You can’t even taste the lox. Which is the only reason
to eat here in the first place. That’s one thing I’ll say; they do have fresh lox. It’s hard to get that anymore. I’m taking this coffee back. It’s way too cold.

Apparently, Loretta’s son bought her an ipod. Her nephew, Stevie, was trying to teach her how to use it the other day. Touch this. Drag that. It’s all very overwhelming if you ask me. Then they have these things called applications. Stevie was taking pictures with this thing, and then making funny faces with it. He’s aborable. Loretta has a picture of him somewhere in her purse. I think she is still looking for it though.

Anyhow, she doesn’t get the ipod. I hope her son, Ned, won’t mind that she is taking it back. She’s not going to tell him. She’d feel too bad for him. You should’ve seen the excitement he had when he showed it her. She’ll just take the store credit and buy a tea kettle with it. I mean is that wrong? She just figured out how to use her VCR. How in God’s name is she going to figure out how to use an ipod? Does it play records? She has a beautiful record of Johnny Mathis that she hasn’t been able to play since Morty passed away. I wonder if Stevie knows how to convert vinyl to mp3. Maybe she should hold onto it for a little longer. She may get the hang of it.

So can you believe Jeffrey’s still out of a job? This economy is awful. Loretta was just saying how she didn’t vote for Obama. Everyone agrees – he was a bad choice for president. Not because he’s black. Well, he’s half black right? His mother was a white woman, correct? It’s the father though. He’s out of the picture completely. I think he lives somewhere in Africa or India. He’s Muslim you know? And you know all about those Muslims. Osama Bin Laden and such. They started this whole war in Iraq. Georgie told Rose that we may be going to war with some of those other Indian countries. I don’t know which ones. The Muslims ones I guess. Janette saw this poor woman the other day, draped with a black robe – head to toe. Honest to God. How can she wear that in this humidity? Their husbands make them wear that. If Harry made Janette wear that he’d be out the door. Who are we kidding? Harry wouldn’t even ask Janette to make the bed. He’s such a sweetheart. I wonder how he’s doing.

Rose really likes that bottle of sugar. Do you think they would know if she took one home? They have so many of them. They wouldn’t notice would they? It’s not like she doesn’t buy something there several times a week. It’s not stealing. It would go perfect on her kitchen table. She shouldn’t even ask if it’s OK. They would definitely give it to her if she asked. Yea, Rose just wrap it up in a bunch of napkins and stuff it in your purse. You’ve earned it. Although, you gals should probably leave after that. Actually, I think Wheel of Fortune is coming on soon too. Bye ladies.

“Thanks for the chair. You’re such a sweetheart.”

“My pleasure.”

“Are you single? I wish my granddaughter, Stephanie, would date someone more like you. She’s gorgeous. You’d love her.”

I guess it couldn’t hurt to grab a coffee with her. At least see what she looks like.
“I’d love to meet her.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m working on a comedy book.”

“Well it was nice meeting you sweetie.”

Was I rejected by an old lady? Excuse me sir. I think that lady took off with some of your supplies. Check her purse.