Quandary or Coke, Coke, My Kingdom for a Coke.
It was a miserable, tragic day when I walked into the break room and saw the words 'Dr. Pepper' scrawled on a plain, white piece of paper and shoved into the button that usually displayed the beloved Coca-Cola logo.
WTF? This is a Coke machine. Now it's a Coke machine from which I can no longer purchase an ice cold bottle of heaven. The Nectar of the Gods has been removed from the machine that bears its name and has been replaced with Dr. freaking Pepper. Soda gods, why do you mock me?
Sure, my first thought was maybe the delivery guy had run out of the popular beverage. As mind boggling as this thought was, perhaps it was true. After all, a hand written note in the button does denote a temporary situation. Perhaps the good doctor was only in town for a short visit. Only now, weeks later, the hand written note remains, as does the beverage. It mocks me, pointing and laughing from its borrowed digs.
How do I combat this? Do I boycott the Coke machine, relying on Mountain Dew to get me through, in hopes that the delivery man will realize his mistake and evict the doctor in order to bring back the profits of days past? Or is the delivery guy waiting for the Dr. Pepper supply to dry up before he brings the Coke back? But if I guzzle all the Pepper, then maybe the delivery guy will think, "Wow, they really like this crap. I'd better bring more."
See? It's one of those Catch-22 things. Only times 10. It's a Catch-220.
You’re a Real Hell’s Angel, Buddy
Driving to a client's office yesterday, I was cut off by some schmuck on a Vespa-type scooter. The sticker on the back of his scooter read:
It's not illegal to be a biker.
Is that what you think you are, dillhole? A biker? No, you're a scooterer. It's not a real word, but you're not a real biker.
No matter how many times you scoot down the road with what's left of your hair blowing in the breeze, no matter how many times you tell your bro, "Killer boots, man," and no matter how many times you brag, "I get 70 miles to the gallon on this hog," you will never be a biker.
Yellow Jersey
Over heard in the break room while at lunch:
I saw a guy riding his bike this morning wearing yellow. Come on, man. Any color but yellow. You gotta earn that color.
What?
He's just some dude exercising or doing his part for the environment by biking to work. This isn't the Tour de France, dillhole. The guy can wear whatever freaking color he wants.
Petty? Sure, but fun.
On the way to work, I was doing 70 in a 60 mph zone. 201 at that point is just a two lane job. I was in the left lane passing a garbage truck when a glance in my rear view revealed some lady in a Ford just hugging my bumper to no end. She was close enough that I could clearly see every whisker on her chin.
Her firm set mouth set below her enormous bug-eyed sunglasses let me know she was itching to get a move on despite the fact we were already speeding. I eased off the gas so I wouldn't completely pass the garbage truck. I ended up half a car length ahead. I think the garbage truck driver read my mind because he sped up until we were nose to nose and then matched my speed.
I couldn't help but laugh as I looked in my mirror again. The lady trapped in the Ford behind us was not happy.
But I was.
Mullet this over.
While eating lunch in the break room, I actually heard the following phrase from a woman talking about her ex-husband:
"Yeah, women would stare at him all the time. He had the mullet going, and he was hot."
He had the mullet going? He was hot? Mullet and Hot should never appear in the same sentence unless it goes something like this, "My fugly ex chopped his mullet off because the weather was so hot." That's it. No exceptions.
And those women probably weren't staring because he was hot. They were staring in awe and wonderment that someone with a mullet got a woman to go into public with him.