Take Me To Your Vulgar.

"We don't do fucking peach salads anymore. " I thrust out in our shared 'fuck this shit' tone.

Across the room, the Ginger Glam Giant yells back at me "Oh Yes We Do."

"Bull-mother-fucking- shit. There's no peaches in house. Shit has been 86'ed since there isn't a single peach left in this Dimension, dude." I drop my volume.. "even if we see 2 ton totes of those bitches in the chain grocery store on every corner." hahaha. It's a verbal high five. I am tired of high fives. These things are more like low 1.5s. Even if I participate in this dynamic interaction with more reserve.. the result would be the same. I leave it, happy that I am released from its windowless grip. And whenever anyone else leaves before me, I shout after them, "Run Forest Run".

Silverback emerges from the back of the kitchen and says something about 'was it the bartender again?'

"I didn't realize you were here sir, or I wouldn't have been so ... vulgar."

Hover. Make eye contact 3 seconds longer than most situations would warrant, and believe that you are a god among men is my assessment. He believes that he is commanding the immediate space of all atoms around him if he behaves this way. Commanders command... and the rest get commanded. Oh really? What if you aren't the boss of me? What if I didn't ever work for you again?

We all know, based on very basic context clues, that it WAS the bartender who had placed the order. But more importantly, WHY would the bartender be asking for something we don't provide anymore? Is he stupid? Is he lazy? Does he have a death wish for fucking with us?

We dig our hearts out, digging the graves for our souls in the basement of this poorly designed uncreative DREAM and 'Rick Moranis' wants to fuck with us?

Not so. Turns out he was just going off of the menu. We had fucked with him and fucked with ourselves in the process.

What if the last command you gave was your last?

Not allowed to skip from War to Fantasy?


Silverback blocks my station as he eats whatever he wants that he sees. He (it) lounges and intends to simultaneously have rapport as it exercises ancient robotic tactics of dominant posing. "You should be more approachable," he says. Its like he cut it out of a magazine and pasted it in the air between us. I grab towels and make the stainless steel all around us look stainless as I can handle.

When I pause long enough to figure that he is in fact expecting me to come back to that, I say that I am the most approachable person that you probably know. What you see is what you get. There is no mystery here. I am approached seven ways from Sunday every second of the day when I am not at work. I can go through a crowd of a thousand without making eye contact, but if you grab me or tap my shoulder just to tell me that you are praying for me.. You will get real close to me real quick. Sound macho? That was the macho-lite edition.


The highlight of my day was when I stood in line at the post office with my daughter for 1/2 an hour. I love her. I won't go into why we were at the post office and what we gained from the experience. You wouldn't care and I'll totally lose you.

Command your own ass. it's all you've got left that cares.

If the abused phrase "I'm sorry" doesn't make it into my going away party... then I'm sorry.