Welcome Back, Og!
There was an incident in a coffee shop today. Evidently my psyche has decided to take a swing into the manic (why thank you, Mother Moon), and my ability to cope with certain types of people has gone from “barely there” to “DIE YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKERS!”
The type of person of which I write is the bi-pedal “Stupidous Ignoramus,” an all-too-prevalent sub-human. This type of creature does NOT bring out the best in me; rather it brings out the beast in me. Specifically, the beast known as Og.
To the uninitiated, Og is my alter ego, a tutu-wearing, wand-wielding, tiara-sporting, knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing, semi-domesticated troglodyte. Og does not suffer fools lightly.
Or pretty much at all, actually.
But Og has been noticeably absent for a while. In fact, Og kind of took off when the former Lord Of The Manor moved out. No, the two are not one and the same, quite the opposite, actually. The former LOTM is a kind and patient fellow who can, and will, allow the vulgarities of others just roll off his back. Perhaps it is because of that very attitude that Og came into being, after all, SOMEONE had to say something to the ignoramuses or they’d just go on thinking they were right.
Then Tam moved in. Tam is a woman who not only agrees with Og’s (and my) philosophy of intolerance toward idiots, but embraces lunacy in general with wild abandon, and Og is nothing if not a lunatic. Same goes for Tam. She also does not suffer fools lightly.
So, it was a pleasant surprise to feel those familiar surgings of my inner troglodyte while attempting to place an order for coffee at my local coffee shop. Actually, it started even before I placed my order, but it had been so long since we’d been together, I didn’t recognize the signs.
My first hint that it would not be a fun time at the coffee shop was when we approached the counter with a bag of semi-precious gems known as coffee beans. We’ve been keeping to budget and buying the cheap, mass-produced crap coffee for so long, we decided a treat was in order. Besides, if we’re going to pay a premium price for coffee, we’d rather it be for good coffee, you know?
Tam handed over the treasure and asked to have it ground. The Tit-head behind the counter asked, “How?”
I swallowed the words, “In the machine, you stupid tit, unless you plan on grinding them between your thighs, but we’re not paying extra for that.”
Tam gave her a questioning look and asked, “What?”
Tit-head tried to look superior when she said, “Cone or basket?”
Tam was about to say something when an employee with brains came over and asked, “What kind of grind for your coffee maker?”
“Oh,” I said, looking at Tit-head, “percolator.”
Tit-head blinked? “Cone, or basket?”
Og snorted in my ear.
Brains said, “I have it,” and with a smile he took the bag and went off to do our bidding. Tit-head asked, “Will that be all?”
Tam looked at me, “Did you want to order a coffee?”
Spawn, my daughter, is a former barista. She has taught me many things about coffee. Important things like, “Never order a mocha latte, because there is no such thing. It’s either a mocha, or it’s a latte. A mocha is a latte with chocolate in it.” I learned my lessons well and employ them as often as I can afford it. She also told me about a drink called a breve. A breve is a shot of espresso with steamed half-and-half. Decadent and lovely. I wanted one. So I ordered a “tall breve” to which I got the full Monty of Tit-head’s stupidity.
“What do you mean ‘what kind?’ Just a breve.”
She ROLLED HER EYES AT ME and said, “Mocha breve or latte breve.”
My teeth clenched because Og was going to say something rude. “Just…a…breve… please.”
Tam, also a former barista back when baristas had to brew coffee over a fire in a cave, knew what I was talking about and was going to help set the record straight, but Tit-head interrupted her by once again spewing her misinformation at me. This left Tam even less impressed than she already had been.
And THAT’S when Og stepped in. The coffee shop was filled with people, people I did not want to upset, but people whom Og didn’t give a rat’s ass about. Tam sensed trouble was upon us and, instead of defusing the situation, decided to step back and let the shit land wherever it wanted. Fortunately for everyone else in the room, I managed to keep control long enough to say, “Forget it. Just forget it. I’m going outside.”
And I did, but I did not reach the car before Og took control.
Og have potty mouth. Og say bad words. Og not have good volume control. Og loud. Og tell whole world about stupid barista. Og not mince words. Og talk with hands. Tam know to stand far from Og when Og talk with hands. Og can leave marks.
Og drive home. Tam not say much. Og not leave much room in car for chat time. Og fill car with swearing. Og rant. Og make mean sounds about Tit-head parents. Og shout at random bad drivers. Out of car, Og stomp around, slam doors, foam at mouth, shout some more. Og beat chest and howl. Tam kiss Og. Tam say Og go edit. Silly Tam. Og no edit. Og text Spawn. Tell Spawn about Tit-head. Then Og write blog post.
Now Og want go get coffee. Og can show Tit-head how make breve. Then Og can show Tit-head bottom of toilet bowl.