Before the original post begins, I have to share a Charles Bukowski quote that is fitting for this story:
“Boring damned people. All over the earth. Propagating more boring damned people. What a horror show. The earth swarmed with them.”
And now for the post:
I am sitting having breakfast at a local restaurant in between my morning classes. This is a place where people gather for essentially two reasons: either to socialize or to quietly sequester themselves with their nourishment for the day and get some work done. I, being the gregarious glimmer of sunshine that I am, fall into the latter category.
Now, although I try to retract into the cocoon of my own exclusive company without bothers of the outside world edging their way through, I am in a public place and that is simply an unreasonable expectation. As I sip on my coffee and skip through each tab of procrastination open on my computer, a couple is seated at the booth across from me. Ah, a front-row seat. What a lucky day.
I should point out that half of this couple is the most boring individual ever to exist. Ever.
I continue my “work” with only mild distraction by the couple’s colorless conversation. Then, the waitress approaches their table and takes their order.
Every cataclysm begins with one particular moment in time. Fleeting and seemingly insignificant as it may be, this moment is what gets the ball of agony rolling. The second the waitress asked that foreboding question, “What can I get ya’ll?” was that very moment.
Before I dive right into the action here, I’d like to describe the girl who has committed the heinous acts mentioned in the title of this post. Think plain.
Ok, that’s done.
Anyway, she orders. She asks if she can substitute something for the English muffin that comes with her meal. Simple enough. Yes, she can. She chooses fruit. Ok, transaction finished.
She then descends into a compelling tale of her distaste for ENGLISH MUFFINS. At this point I just feel bad for the waitress. She is practically chained to the table by the impending tip at the end of the meal.
Of course, I could be misjudging. The waitress could truly be interested in the fact that this customer’s mother “tried for years” to get her to eat those english muffins. ..Yeah.
Just before the waitress raised the steaming pot of coffee she was holding over the woman’s head to inevitably put a silence to the madness, our story-teller seemed to come to a stopping point in her tale. The waitress took the opportunity to skitter off.
I assume the riveting narrative has come to an end, so I begin to turn back to my work with full concentration. Oh, wait… What? Of course that’s not happening. Apparently the woman’s dining partner as well as the rest of the restaurant absolutely MUST hear how the English muffin saga pans out.
This shit is longer than TWILIGHT.
And about as interesting.
I glance at the clock on my computer screen. 11:02. This speech can’t last all that long. I won’t go popping a XANAX just yet.
11:07. I’ve plugged in my headphones and turned on some music in an attempt to drown out the numbing narrative. However, I must have been destined to know it all because I can still hear this enchanting lady speak of the time she was gifted some top-quality English muffins and subsequently had to deal with the dilemma of what to do.
At this point in my work I’m reviewing bands for a show I’m putting together. I am listening to a pretty shitty group and turn the volume up simply because musical shittiness is preferable to white-girl-chatter shittiness. Especially when the main focus is baked goods.
11:16. My headphones were bothering me, so I take a risk and unplug. After all, there’s no way that bitch is still talking about English muffins. That would be ridiculous. Simply absurd.
Well, great news. She has graduated from the topic of the English muffin. And moved to the topic of every other food item she doesn’t quite like. And the reasons for her displeasure. And the exceptions.
The guy she is having brunch with hasn’t said a word. I can only see the back of his head, but judging by the tensing muscles in his neck, he’s about to either dive across the table MEAN GIRLS-style and attack her, or commit suicide with one of the many potential weapons laid out on the table.
I beamed silent encouragement in his direction, to no avail.
Eventually, the girl ended her monologue. It was a harrowing thing to get through, but we were lucky enough that at least there were no deaths. (Unless you count the deadened eyes of the guy eating with her, the unsure destiny of the waitress whom I have not seen since the order-taking, and my soul.)
Oh, and if any of you are still on the edge of your seats about the outcome of our minstrel’s dire dilemma regarding what to do with the generous gift of the fancy English muffins,
Yeah I don’t give a shit either.
What sucks the most about this entire situation is that I actually agree wholeheartedly with her. English Muffins are disgusting. I truly, passionately hate them.
However, I now have never wanted to love them so badly in my life.