Tuesday, October 3, 2017
I just got back from a magic show in Las Vegas. It was amazing, the guy made 1,400 bullets disappear.
It’s confirmed, the fatso barista is gone.
I asked this morning, “where’s that other guy?”
“Oh him?” Mr limp dick responded as though I’d just put a slice of lemon in his mouth. “He’s done.”
And so, it was time to put my plan into place…
I was thinking, as I went to sleep last night, how I would go about not being spoken to by this new barista. And then it struck me: I’ve been doing this my whole life — the way to get that sweet sweet cold shoulder is to show a romantic interest in her.
So this morning I sidled up to the superfluously sized machine and unleashed my charm on it’s operator. I opened with the classic, “Do you froth here often?”. She did not laugh or even register that I was in the room. A good start. I took a deep breath in through my nose. “What’s that perfume?” I paused, no answer. “I want to buy some for my pillow.”
Nice. Time for the props. I said “I like your hair, may I…” then held out a pair of scissors I had come prepared with. She didn’t respond so I thought why not and snipped off a bit of hair.
Of course I did none of these things, but nothing else happened today.
Half of my suburb is currently a construction zone. It’s like downtown Dubai with fewer towels. Between 6am and 7am all the high-vis blokes roll in across the bridge. At 6:30am the jackhammers start and at 4pm they stop (even the people fitting out the lighting in the almost-finished shopping centre do it with jackhammers).
But something strange is going on today, there is no one here. No jackhammer electricians. It was like one of those dreams where everyone is dead and so I go dancing in the city but then I bump into Will Smith and wish I’d put pants on. I can actually hear the birds. There’s crows that for the first time in their crow-lives hear their calls bouncing off the buildings, and I’m pretty sure they’re saying “is that what I sound like?”
I think I know what’s going on though. It’s a mass, thousand-man walkout, in protest of the fat barista being fired. We didn’t know it, but he was their king all along. Royalty in a bum’s clothing. Johnny was his jester. And firing him has set in motion a chain of events that the world has not seen the likes of for several weeks.
Just one time I’d like my dog to pick up my poo. Is that too much to ask?