But I had you going there for a minute didn’t I? You were a tad bit worried about me weren’t you?
I was worried about me, to be perfectly honest.
It’s not in my nature to keep quiet for too long about the ridiculous things I encounter in this journey. And I see it as inevitable that I’m going to rattle a saber here pretty soon. Or use a stick to provoke the sleeping dog. (Such a horrid euphemism.) Or just, in general, stick my nose where it most definitely belongs. Because…in this case…I think every single one of us should be concerned with the fact that there are idiots among us running around like chickens with their heads cut off, screaming that the sky is falling. The big difference is that here, the chickens are armed and dangerous.
I can see a blockbuster forming here. Stay with me a moment. Hold on….
….yep… here it is:
“Attack of the Killer Headless Chickens…AKA the Mentally Unstable Dudes in Black who Drink Expensive, Overpriced Chick Drinks” (Get it? “Chick Drinks”…chickens drinking chick drinks…??? I have really got to get some sleep, get a new day job, or get some help. Right?)
I digress….in a most serious fashion…
So…I just spent four (4) glorious days in Cheyenne, Wyoming shuttling between the Holiday Inn (the ONLY hotel in town that still allows, gasp, SMOKING rooms) and the hospital. Where I treated VERY sick people all day, in which the common denominator in all of them was, yep… you guessed it…SMOKING. Cigarettes kill you. Period. They just do. In a horrific, disgusting, nasty, cruel, sometimes slow and drawn out way.
Oh, the irony.
But, again, I digress.
Yes, I went to Starbucks.
Yes, the gunslinger in black was there. Every morning. I avoided his eyes. Sort of like how you don’t look at Medusa if you don’t want to be all stony for a long while.
But now…we have a new character to add to the insanity.
Sunday night. Cute, young, female barista.
Enter stage left: one youngish (late 20’s to early 30’s maybe?), crew-cutted male in tennis shoes, ankle socks (so clearly not a dork here wearing black crew or knee socks), khaki shorts (long, but not too long…just normal looking), a short sleeve t-shirt (plain, no obscenities emblazoned across the chest, no ads for GUNS, GUNS, GUNS, just plain)…AND…drum roll please…
…a GUN (pistol, handgun, Colt 45????) slung low over his right hip, over the shorts, like a belt, but down on the hips, not at the waist.
And this dude was standing at the counter, drinking his fou-fou iced drink with whip, CLEARLY, clearly flirting with above-mentioned barista asking her what pricey, expensive hotel he should stay at in Denver. As in…trying really hard to impress upon her how upscale he was. (I mean, he wasn’t asking about a Howard Johnsons versus a Motel 6…OK? I’m not profiling here. Promise.)
Clearly one cannot make this stuff up.
All I ask is for the ability to have my overpriced, snobby espresso drink in peace. Is that too much?????
Cause I’m beginning to wonder what happened to the stars and the moon and the planets? Somewhere, somehow we got out of alignment. Reality took a hike and has not been seen since.
Speaking of reality taking a hike………………
There was a link to a story on my news page about some outrage being generated about a picture taken of President Obama in the Oval Office, on the phone (I think speaking with either Congress members or foreign heads of state)…now, are you sitting down for this outrage? WITH HIS LEFT FOOT UP ON THE DESK AS HE WAS STANDING THERE TALKING ON THE PHONE.
I kid you not. Someone is all up in arms because the President had his foot on the desk while he was talking. And he was standing there, not sitting in a chair (like when you’re mother tells you not to put your feet up on the table…). He was standing up, resting one foot on the desk (as if you would be stretching your groin muscles, or easing the pressure on your low back if you suffer from low back pain, etc, etc, etc).
LORD LOVE A DUCK.
Someone quick call the Impeachment Squad.
Surely this is grounds for Impeachment. I mean, they’ve not had any luck making anything else stick to the President. Surely this might.
We could call it…SHOEGATE. (Sometimes I am truly funny I think.)
And on that note…I’m leaving this alternate universe and heading over to reality land.