Slurry Beta

Infrequent ruminations on nothing.

Friday, September 29, 2006

30 second running diary

The following is a running diary pertaining to a link I clicked on this afternoon whilst browsing the World Wide Web:

3:49:13 Scanning the headlines I read, "Congressman Resigns After Emails With Page." This could be as good as the chicken sandwich I had today, which was exceptional. Best chicken sandwich I've had in a long time. Seriously, you put a good handful of alfalfa sprouts on a sandwich and you've got something special on your hands. But don't be hasty, Chief. The sprouts tend to go bad quickly and may pick up a little salmonella if you're not careful. You might want to give them a little sniff to be absolutely sure.

3:49:25 I move the mouse cursor toward the link, thinking, "Please be a Republican. Please be a Republican."

3:49:36 I click on the link.

3:49:42 OOOOOEEEEEE! Thank you, Sweet Jesus! Wait, don't tell me the page is male. Seriously don't. He is? What a great day!

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Important: A Life Lesson

Like millions of Americans, I am addicted to coffee. I need it every morning, plain and simple. Until I drink a cup in the morning, I feel like I’m a carbon atom that picked up an extra neutron over night (re: unstable…that’s for you Johnny Chemistry). I can’t brew my own coffee in the office kitchen because certain people think brewed coffee “stinks” and wonder “why I can’t just brew one cup at a time instead of leaving the machine on all morning.” Instead of giving into such suffocating oppression and brewing a single cup of coffee every time I need a fix, I walk to Starbucks every morning and pick up a medium coffee or “grande” if you want to basically give everyone in Mr. Starbuck’s marketing department a baby oil HJ (that’s for you Moroni and Pleisure). Over the years, I’ve had various stints in the service industry so I know how much people appreciate it when you make their lives easier. So that’s what I get, one black coffee. $1.89. I’m in, I’m out. I’m happy, they’re happy. Sometimes, if she’s not too busy, the latte lady will come over and give my butt a little thank you pinch.

Once in awhile, a certain person will intercept me on my way out of the office and, without fail, the conversation always goes a little something like this:

Certain Person (knowing I go to Sucks to get a cup of coffee every morning): Are you going to Starbucks?
Me: Yes.
CP: Can I give you money to pick something up for me?
Me (reluctantly): Yes.
CP: Okay, I want a grande light, no whip, chocolate frappuccino…no, I want a vanilla bean, no whip, light frappuccino. And can you have them put a little less ice in the mixer and a little more milk? Great. Oh, and I actually do want whip cream on it, but could you ask them to blend half of it into the frapuccino? (Hands me a twenty dollar bill…as if I carry around change for a 20 all the time) Thanks.
Me (annoyed at the ridiculous coffee request that she could have gotten herself on her way to work 5 minutes ago): Alright. I’ll be right back.


Worker: Hey, grande coffee for you today? God, I love you.
Me: Yes, thanks, you’re pretty cool too. But I also need a vanilla bean, no whip, light frappuccino.
Worker: We don’t have that. We’ve got the cream based but that doesn’t come in a frappuccino.
Me: I really don’t know; that’s what she told me. Is that light?
Worker: No, I don’t really know what you mean.
Me: Neither do I. It’s not for me.
Barista (chiming in from her station): I think I know what you want.
Me: Great. Um, also, can I pay for each drink separately?
Worker (looking at the long line behind me with fiery eyes): Uh, yeah.
Me (to the barista): Can you please add more milk and a little less ice to that frappuccino? I’m sorry this isn’t for me. And could you blend in some whip cream into that? I’m really sorry for being difficult but I’m getting this for someone else. Please don’t spit in that.


Me (handing the drink to Certain Person, along with exact change): Here you go.
CP (letting out a big sigh): This isn’t what I wanted. That’s okay, though...I’ll still drink it.

The moral of this story, my dear readers, is that you should never do anything nice for anyone.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Story Time

I know there has been a longer blogging hiatus than usual, which has been adversely affecting my readership. Several readers have written me and said they’ve turned their backs on God, some have dropped out of school, and most are suffering from varying degrees of depression. Trust me, I know this blog has a profound effect on people so you’ll be happy to know that something peculiar actually happened to me today that's worth blogging about. Actually, several peculiar things have happened to me over the past few weeks. I just can’t write about them as they are a direct result of my own poor decision making. Let’s just say they involve a partially broken foot, a ruined shirt, and several misdemeanors that I may not yet know about. I’ll let you speculate. Anyway, on with today’s story.

On my way to lunch today, I stopped into a local used bookstore to add to my collection of books I’ll never read. You know the drill: smells like rotten paper; books stacked to the ceiling; barely any room for maneuvering; eccentric/cantankerous/senile person at the front desk. I think these used book stores are the same everywhere—almost like a franchise. There was an elderly lady at the front desk and I said hello as I entered and browsed around the first floor (biographies, new arrivals, non-fiction). Finding nothing, I decided to head upstairs to the fiction section and maybe check out the Danielle Steele spread they have (I don’t know about you all, but there’s nothing like lusty, steamy romance novel…nothing). As I passed by the lady at the front desk I said, “I think I’ll check out the fiction section.” You know, a little idle chit chat with the nice lady. A little Slurry Beta charm is always appreciated. Suddenly, the lady begins speaking in disjointed sentences, “I hate to ask this of you…but…when you go upstairs….and I don’t mean to be presumptuous…but…I was robbed at gunpoint not too long ago…there is a gentleman who comes in here often and never buys a book…not that he isn’t allowed to come in here….but I was robbed at gunpoint…would you mind checking it out upstairs and let me know if there is anything suspicious?…I mean, I hate to be rude…but I’m just a bit concerned…don’t be too conspicuous.”

At this point I was thinking to myself, “Well, not only to I feel morally obligated to check this armed gunman out (I have sheriff’s blood, you know) but I also feel obligated to buy a goddamn book lest I be construed as an armed robber.”

“Sure, I’ll check it out, Sugar Britches,” I said without saying Sugar Britches. I walked upstairs and, sure enough, there was a guy polishing his firearm in front the True Crime section. “I robbed that woman downstairs at gunpoint last month and I’ve been coming in here every day for the past few weeks, not reading anything, but just waiting for the right time, man. I think now’s the time,” he said. I quickly sprung into action and beat him down with “The Complete Works of Shakespeare.” Cops and reporters arrived on the scene not too long after and I was given the Presidential Medal of Honor, all in time to get back to the office for an after lunch meeting.

Okay, that didn’t happen. I did, however, walk upstairs to find three very harmless people quietly perusing the bookshelves. I picked up a copy of Tim O’Brien’s “If I Die in a Combat Zone”, told the lady she was okay, paid for my book and walked out.