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the bakery sketch
02/13/2006 = 01:26 PM

I'm pretty sick, I guess.

I don't think I'm, like, at Death's door or anything, and I rather hope I'm not, because I'm not dressed to meet Death, and my hair looks like crap.

But I woke up with my head full of bubbles that keep popping, and they're fucking loud.

So I asked That Man of Mine to put on the television for me, and he did, and there was a woman on some exercise machine commercial, and she was coming out of her pool but her hair was dry, so I started crying because people don't go in the pool and come out with dry hair, so she is possessed, and That Man of Mine is, understandably, somewhat concerned about me.

My bad. I didn't mean to scare him.

Also, I didn't mean to say "my bad."

He made me to call work and tell them I'm sick, and I did.

Boy, does my head hurt. Bubbles. Ouch, muthafucka.

I had the fuckingest dream. It was a full-blown sketch with no beginning or end, and it was worse than a nightmare, because at least when one wakes from a nightmare, one says, "Well, that was only a dream."

Not this. I'm so bloody frustrated I want to complain to someone, and so I shall complain to you, although I know full well this never happened in real life.

Go on and tell me how lucky I am. When I feel better, I'll be happy to agree. Right now? Still pissed.

On the bright side, if I'm going to feel this fucking sick, I'm grateful that it writes itself into something entertaining in my achy bubble-filled brain.

And now: my dream, or the sketch; however you want to refer to it.

Scene: bakery/coffee shop, interior, day.

Me: I would like to register a complaint.
Barista 1: Sorry, this isn't my Starbucks. (Leaves)
Me (to fourth wall): I'm so not surprised, are you?
Barista 2 (disinterestedly): Welcometostarbucksmayihelpyou.
Me: I would like to register a complaint.
Barista 2: Sorrythisismylunchbreak.
Me: Mine, too, coincidentally enough. Hence, I have come here for lunch. Hence, my complaint. Oh, no you don't. I'm telling someone about this.
Barista 2: (not terribly interested) Iamterriblyinterested.
Me: I walked in here for a venti valencia skim and a cinnamon bun. I was given no coffee whatsoever and some peanut butter thing. No glaze. No cinnamon. No raisins. No redeeming qualities whatsoever, actually.
John Cleese: Sucks being you, dunnit?
Me: You're very tall, aren't you.
John Cleese: They say.
Me: You should stoop to my level. I can hardly hear you.
John Cleese: Nerve of you, telling me to get bent. (Leaves).
Me: (to fourth wall): You have just all been witness to my having blown my chances for Monty Python, The Next Generation. (to barista). I just want to speak to the person who has deprived me of venti valencia skim goodness and cinnamon happiness.
Barista 2 (bored beyond description): Isthataband?
Me: Not in the slightest.
Barista 2: Youshouldprobablyjustgo.
Me: Peanut butter. I fucking ordered cinnamon.
Barista 3: Can I help you?
Me: I hope someone can. I ordered coffee, which was never dispensed, and a cinnamon bun, which turned out to be peanut butter.
Barista 3: The peanut butter is healthier.
Me: First of all, it's not healthy, it is dead. It could be construed as more healthful, devised to make me healthier, but that is hardly my point, since it was, second of all, not what I ordered, and third of all, not what I wanted. Had I wanted something healthful for lunch, I'd hardly have come to a coffee shop. I'd have got a bleeding salad. I wanted twenty ounces of caffeinated beverage and a pile of yeast and starch, preferably adorned with white goo. I am, essentially gooless. And my lunch break has been nearly exhausted. I must back to my office, without lunch of any sort, because I cannot get satisfaction from the likes of this establishment. Aren't you ashamed of yourselves?
Barista 3 (not terribly sorry): I'm terribly sorry.
Me: You're not as sorry as I am. Do you know how I know this?
Barista 3 (finally interested): No, how?
Me: Because no one is as sorry as I am.
John Cleese: Next time you'll brownbag it, you silly little bitch.

This was when I woke up, and I am so fucking frustrated and pissed I can't convey it.

Now is when Terry Gilliam would put in a cartoon, but I will have to settle for pain killers. Bubbles, you know. Fucking loud and things.

drinking: nothing
listening to: are you not fucking paying attention? fucking bubbles. loud.
that lady: dry hair. i'm telling you, she's possessed, and i'm ascairt. i want my mother.