dodraibeid

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!

I know what the "W" stands for.

"W"e are all going to die.

Someone make me laugh. Quickly.

And now, a story.


All I wanted was a goddamn soup and sandwich.

I walked into the diner and sat down. It was that really annoying time of year when it was too cold for a t-shirt, but still a little hot to be wearing a sweater. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cigarettes. I flicked the bottom of my pack about four or five times before one of them finally popped up. Fucking softpacks. Just another one of those things that was only invented to annoy me. I stuck the smoke in my mouth and fished around in my pockets for a lighter. After searching every pocket on my person four times, it finally materialized in that tiny one that sits just above your right pants pocket. Its called a watch pocket. Someone should call Mr. Levi and tell him we keep watches on our fucking wrists these days.
Even though I was in Pennsylvania, I felt a little funny lighting up inside. Delaware had only been non-smoking for about a year or two, but after a few months being allowed to smoke indoors anywhere was a novelty not to be passed up. Even if you didnt want a cigarette, you had to smoke on principle. The waiter brought over an ashtray and asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I think my favorite thing about diners is the lack of formalities. No introduction. No Welcome to Diners Name Here. Would you like to hear about our house specials? No, if I want to know his name, I can read the nametag on his shirt. If I want to know about the specials, I am given the option of reading the giant fucking dry erase board thats right in front of me when I walk in the door, and if I dont know the name of the diner Im in, Im an idiot for not reading the giant orange neon sign that identified the place to me as a diner in the first place. Im going off on a tangent. Get used to it.
Anyway. I toldl him I wanted a coffee and a water. He took off for parts unknown to retrieve my drinks and I started messing with the jukebox. I began looking for the George Thorogood album, and remembered that I was in PA. A little secret about Delaware for you. Every jukebox in the state has George Thorogood and the Destroyers Greatest Hits on it. I dont know if its a law or what, but its true. Anyway. The waiter came back with the water, a mug, and a pot of coffee. This thrills me. I drink a lot of coffee. You eating? he said, sounding only a little bit like he didnt give a flying fuck.
I asked him for a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a grilled cheese.
You want fries, mashed potatoes, or chips on the side? he asked.
Just the soups cool. I said.
Its hot. He said back.
Huh? What is? I asked, a little confused.
The soup. Its hot. He clarified, somehow making himself even less clear.
Okay
You said it was cool. But its not. Its hot.
Oh. I started praying violently that he was joking. Ha. No. I mean I didnt want a side. Just the soup.
Sorry. You cant substitute soup for a side. He said, sounding a little more like he didnt give a flying fuck.
Thats okay. I said.
Okay. You want fries, mashed potatoes, or chips?
No side. Just the soup. I dont know why I thought hed understand. I was obviously being selfish.
No, man. You cant substitute soup for a side. Youre gonna have to pay for the soup.
Yeah, I know, I said, and thats fine.
Okay, so do you want fries, mashed potatoes, or chips?
Cant I just get a sandwich with no side and a bowl of soup?
Im getting my manager.
Now, I know better than to piss off the guy that brings me food. But I found myself (like most things I know better than to do) doing it anyway. It wasnt on purpose. I swear.
So the manager came over looking a bit confused.
Hi. What seems to be the problem exactly? He smiled the smile of a man who didnt give a flying fuck. It must have been a theme diner.
No problem. I just wanted to get a grilled cheese and a bowl of soup.
Sure. You can have fries, mashed potatoes, or chips with the sandwich. He said. It didnt seem like the waiter had filled him in very well.
See, thats the thing. I dont want a side. Just the soup and sandwich.
Sorry, sir. You cant substitute soup for a side.
This is something Im painfully aware of.
Good. So what do you want?
Soup.
Okay
Grilled cheese.
You know a side comes with it, right? You dont have to like pay extra for it or anything.
At this point, I know that fact better than I know my own name.
Good. Now were getting somewhere. I really didnt feel as though we were getting anywhaere at all. Now do you want fries, mashed po-
Can I ask you a question? I interrupted, trying a different tack.
Sure.
You got soup back there? I asked, pointing at the kitchen door.
Yeah.
Do you have all of the materials to make grilled cheese sandwiches? I continued.
Yes.
By this point I was sure that my food was going to going to have anthrax on it no matter what I said. Id royally pissed these stupid men off, and Id stopped giving a flying fuck about two minutes prior. So at least I knew we had something in common.
Okay. Now heres the really tricky part. I said.
Im listening. He said.
Have you got any plates back there that dont have sides on them?
Im sure we could dig one up, smartass. He managed to say this while still maintaining the withholding the flying fuck motif.
Good., I said, Heres what you do. Take the soup. Put it in a bowl. Make the grilled cheese. Put it on the sideless plate. Then, do whatever unholy thing you have to do to it to make yourself feel better, then give it to me. I will eat it. Now pay attention to this next part. I dont want to lose you. I will then pay you for the sandwich and the soup. Then I will leave your establishment, and with a little luck, I will not have gotten food poisoning, nor will I have caught the disease that SEEMS TO HAVE KILLED ALL OF THE BRAINCELLS IN THIS PLACE!
You know what? Talk to the cook. HUMBERTO! He yelled.
I foolishly hoped that the cook wasnt born inside a microwave oven like the other two mutants and could figure out how to get me some food sans side without damaging the delicate fabric of reality. The kitchen door swung open, and Humberto stepped through it. Why is it that every time a cook comes from the kitchen, he cant put down his saber sized knife?
Que? he grunted.
Talk to this guy., said the manager, He wants some kind of special order.
Que quiere usted ? he asked me. Give yourself a cookie if you guessed that he didnt seem to give a flying fuck.
I want a bowl of soup.
Lo que es especial sobre esto?
Nothing. Whats special is that I want a grilled cheese.
Haga usted quiere a papas fritas, ensalada de patatas, o patatas fritas?
I want none of those things. I just want the soup and the grilled cheese.
Estoy bastante seguro que usted no puede hacer esto.
Youre right. I cant do it. But see, you can. You can put soup in a bowl, and then put the grilled cheese on an empty plate. Then you can give it to me.
No pienso que les gustara esto.
Dont worry about them. Ill handle them. Im pretty sure theyre not real anyway. Theyre probably an acid flashback or something.
Le tienen LSD alguna vez hecho?
No. But I plan to as soon as I leave.
Independientemente de usted dice, mano. Entonces esto es un queso asado a la parrilla, la sopa, y ningun lado, correcto?
Yes. Please.
Tendre razon atras.
Humberto brought me my sandwich, and my soup. There were no potatoes in sight. I walked up to the register to pay.
How was everything? he asked.
Do you really give a flying fuck? I asked him.
No. Not really. Not at all, actually.
In that case, everything was wonderful. I decided on the mashed potatoes. I said.
And with that, I left.