The local cigar store is converting the lounge area back to actual shop space. And this has peeved the cigar smokers no end. They are livid. They are doleful. They are wounded.
But most of all, they are teenagers. Not real teenagers, you understand, but emotional teenagers.
They feel that that is their treehouse, their space. Why is the world being so cruel to them?
More to the point, why are the owners of the store being so cruel?
For the past week, over a dozen middle-aged men have been monotonously whining.
Oh, the agony and heartache!
SOUR & BITTER GEEZERTUDE
Simply put, guys, it's because you're all a bunch of putzes. Opinionated, juvenile, and, in many cases, staggeringly ignorant. Your collective intelligence is rather horrendously dumber than a load of bricks. It is quite likely that the owners were sick and tired of listening to the same old potty humour, worn out vulgarities, and appreciative wolf-grunts about passing women.
I gave up dropping by the store on Saturdays precisely because your conversations were so predictable. Even back when I still came, I hid in the corner near the back smoking my pipe, far away from your idiotic chatter and your big fat rumps wearing potholes in the comfy chairs near the window.
For the same reason I no longer drop by in the evening.
Individually many of you are rather decent chaps.
As a group, however, you really suck.
Plus you look funny and you eat too much.
So yes, I have no problem with the owners converting it back to a mercantile use, and actually making money from space for which they pay rent.
During the day, when it is time for my smoke break, I will still load up a pipe and saunter over. And as usual, after making my daily purchase, I will lean against the back wall, not saying much, perhaps not saying anything at all.
Just me, a fine piece of briar, and a stinky Oriental blend.
No ribald comments about the racks or dumptrucks of passing women, no drivel about ball games, no ridiculous rightwing comments about Obama.
Get over it, boys.
Take some valium for your shaken nerves, have therapy for the trauma if that is really necessary. And fercrapsakes stop weeping!
Buy a book. Find a girl friend. Get a life.
Grow up.
THE PRICE OF EGGS
Despite the pervasive gloom in Democratic circles, and the giddy intoxicated optimism in the Republican, neo-Nazi, Fascist, and Authoritaria...
2 comments:
Maybe they could move in with the ops department from your work.
Heavens no! What a disaster that would be. Between D.’s sense of humour, G.’s lack of a sense of humour, H.’s strong opinions about knives and gadgets, O.’s irritating speech habits, S.’s misfiring conversational skills, and all the others, including the weasely git, the randy young wolf, the vulgarian, and “Laughs Like Horse”, I don’t think I could stand it.
There’s only so much clubhouse behaviour one can take.
It would be like having an entire Sales Department living next door. More of them, with more smells too.
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