So this is how i start my day. Muttering under my breathe, "Yeah, well fuck your mother,: while the son in question carries on a conversation about real estate with a much loathed regular.
The sonufabitch who popped his rotound fatass through the door immediately saying (and I quote), "I had to finish my phone conversation I was having outside, the music in this place is atrocious."
I laugh, automatically thinking he's kidding and possibly a regular i've still to meet.
He's not kidding.
q "Oh, you're serious," I say. At this I awknowledge that he is probably not a regular, and is definitely an old-timey sort of fella. I think to suggest an alternative by starting,
"I usually listen to old country, or something like Astrud Gilberto from back in the day...but I thought I'd give people around here a break from that once in while. We have a lot of stuff of the computer here, i could probably play you anything youd like."
He doesn't respond at all. No recognition in his eyes that I even spoke.
Somewhere in between his sausage finger opening the door and his seemingly increasing-in-size-ass spilling over the barstool, he also managed to spout an order in my direction, speaking to me as though i might be simple (apparently thats the "adult" way of speaking to a stranger). So here I am, making his drink (double tall americano, room for cream), and he continues on to say, "There is so much music out in the world nowadays, you kids dont know what the heck is so good anymore, the loud noise you listen to has blown your eardrums so you cant tell."
This time its me who has nothing to say on the matter. Because I guess he's right, I have no idea what's any good.
"While my opinion is null and void I'd like to state that I think you're a fat fuck."
I don't say this, but fuck all if i wasnt thinking it with every fiber in my brain.

This morning is particularly busy, as it's been absolutely dead in here in the mornings for the past month. So as I finish the double tall americano, with room, he asks for milk as the next customer comes through the door.
"May I have some milk too?"
"Milk."
"Half & Half, yes."
"So, milk...or half & half"
"Half & half," He repeats to me impatiently, as though I was retarded.
I accidently spilt some of the creamer on the counter in the process of pouring it into a pourer for him to use, i can feel him watching me and i know he's made some sort of mental note of how unimpressive it was.
I start to make the next fellas drink (16 oz vanilla latte), and so as im crouching looking for the vanilla syrup, the pudgey-prick says, peering down at me, but talking, however to the regular I referred to earlier, "Too few brain cells around this place. Everyone is so airy in the head, Airy headed."
Wow. Really? Thanks for that one. The regular, responding moronically, makes me remember that i always thought HE was fucking stupid and maybe the fat fuck is right, just not about me. The regular tries to make a joke that my boyfriend is a good example of the guy's opinion and as much as I hate the regular, I hate the fat fuck more so I smile a little and nod in some fabricated agreeance because it was the only way out of my wanting to rage on the other guy.
I'm cleaning up my mess and this is where the stout shithead makes it clear that he is, and has been from the start, been referring to me-just in case it wasnt obvious before.
"Seems like shirts around here got shrunk in the dryer. You kids dont have money to buy clothes that fit?"
He was somehow prompted to make this comment because I was tugging down on my shirt from under my sweatshirt while i puttered around my business. Seeing how this particular comment had to have been the least offensive of all and barely even still, I found it easy to toss back,
"Oh no, it was actually my pants that shrunk in the wash, whoops!"
I smile.
He's unmoved.
"Actually," I continue, gesturing at the regular (who I recognize as my only aid in this situation), "I normally
dress quite nicely, this is one of the few times i've not worn in a dress in some time, this fella can attest to that."
The regular agrees, this does nothing for the near-obese dolt.
The obvious thing to me, now, is that he had to have been out for someone, anyone, this morning (maybe always)and the cafe is where he chose to go, and I was the stranger he chose to mildly torture (thats my dramatic way of saying "to pick on").
I think if I ever have to use that anger management method of hitting a pillow, or if someone asks me what I think the opposite of a rainbow is, I'll picture this butterball of a brute.