Filler: It Is What It Is, Baby

Ever have those days where you just love being you? Something about being you just feels even more fun than normal.

This is that day for me. Nothing special, oddly. I can't write to save my life. Total block. I've started six pieces today, and none have finished. I have a headache, still a bit sick, the weather's still crap and cold and grey, I'm still broke, but shit, man, I'm really just digging being me -- roadblocks and all.

So, considering how futile writing is today, I think you're stuck with nothing to brag about for postings. But here's a cute little snippet I wrote a long time ago for elsewhere:

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One of my bestest friends, GayBoy, (aka Mr.Tits.Pervert in comments here) works at a Starbucks. Nay, did I say work? Indeed not. GayBoy assistant manages the lowly proletariats who man the cesspool of coffee.

Actually, he enjoys his work most of the time and likes the company. As do I. I think I get hundreds of dollars of coffee free per annum by way of the all-joed-out GayBoy.

What he’s not too crazy about, though, is the hood in which he slings caffeine. Let’s call it the corner of “Crack and Whore.”

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Enter Volume One of the Crack and Whorescapades.

My friend tells me all manner of stories from his work. Some cause a chuckle, but most are pretty tragic. I joke around a lot about dope, but when it comes to drugs, if some dude didn’t grow it while listening to The Grateful Dead and chanting passages of The Bhagavid Gita, then I don’t go there.

A lot of these streetworkers trip out on crack and meth. Whenever they’re tweaking, they need sugar fixes. Maybe there’s a reason my friend’s shop exceeds retail goals every month.

He tells me that when he’s pouring a caramel macchiato behind the bar, the hookers will drape themselves over the bar as he squirts his syrup in their cups, and cry out, “More please! More please!”

When they’ve ordered a pastry, they’ll call out, “The big one! The big one! That one, there!”

They’re professionals, you know. So you know what this means, don’t you? The vote is in: Size officially does matter.