Jihad

She stood there, in her ass-hugging hipster art pants. Black faux-denim, to match her heart. Her over-calculated under-prepped appearance created an aura of social superiority. Her lifeless eyes spoke of disdain.

She huffed, and rolled her eyes at me, standing there in my basic white dress shirt, dorky haircut and matching brown-leather accessories.

It was workday morning. We were in a coffee shop located in the heart of the business district downtown.

I chanced a smile, and said, "Good morning!"

She responded with slumped shoulders and a grimace, slowing disappearing behind drawing drapes of raven hair.

Perhaps it was my lack of tattoos. Perhaps it was my pre-1980 birth date. I certainly wasn't staring at her heavily-tattooed tits, and I tip well!

I was hoping to get a medium coffee and a breakfast pastry. Instead, I got an insult.

Now, the coffee is good and they are conveniently located in my building. However, rude indulgent insolence seems to be the rule. Time and again, the coffee-serving snatches at the Coffee Plant continue to abuse my patronage and patience. And really, when it comes to food service, I can only take so much slack-assed self-importance.

And so, I have declared Jihad. Holy War. I pray to Allah (or whoever) that the Coffee Plant goes under, and the cunty cabal have to go out and find real jobs for real employers who will force them to wear polyester polo shirts with peppy name tags, and teach them to smile warmly at customers far less friendly than me. I pray they seek work at Chillies, Petsmart or Bullwinkle's. I pray for the humiliation that will take their oh-so-mighty coffee-making smirks off their worthless tragically-aloof faces. I pray for plagues, calamity and catastrophe of biblical proportions to befall this Sodom of coffee. I pray for the utter collapse of the Coffee Plant, and yearn for their horror of realization that the world does not, in fact, revolve around their little, and literal, hole in the wall.

Jihad!

Curse them! I will not drink their wretched brew.

On the same note...

Fuck Jack-in-the-Box too!

Really, all I wanted was a spicy chicken combo with a diet coke. I mean, how hard was that? Sure, the two-way intercom ordering system is imperfect, but it belongs to them. If for some reason, the burger-boy cannot make out the final few words of the order, then perhaps he should ask politely: "excuse me, what was that last part of your order?"

What he shouldn't say, especially in a loud condescendingly angry tone, is: "What??"

And! When midget-hooligan Eminem-look-a-like burger punk forgets the fries and drink, and the customer is looking expectantly, waiting patiently for the frosty beverage, the proper response in NOT to cock his head and shrug with an impudent sneer.

So, my level of animosity toward the local J-in-the-B has not risen to the point of protest or boycott. However, they ARE on my list...