Don’t fuck with me during breakfast.
I frequent this bagel shop in North County, San Diego, several times per week. I don’t know what it is about the clientele here, but it’s like everyone suddenly gets the urge to talk to me while I’m either waiting for my bagel, or eating it. You know how some people are like, “Don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee,”? Well, that’s me, except replace coffee with a bagel, because coffee tastes like burnt assholes. Also, don’t talk to me after I’ve had my bagel, because I order a chocolate chip one, so I probably have chocolate in my teeth that I won’t be able to get out until I’m in the privacy of my car. Just don’t talk to me at the bagel shop, ok? Today, I’ll share a list of actual offenders with you.
The Jersey Boys Dude: I often purchase hoodies as souvenirs from musicals, so one day, I wore my Jersey Boys hoodie to breakfast. Some old guy shuffled up to me and said, “Oh, Jersey Boys! Have you seen that show?” I perked up, thinking I was meeting a fellow Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons fan. I told him I’d seen it numerous times. Then he said, “I haven’t seen it yet. Who’s that about…isn’t it Frankie Valli or somebody?” Dude, you’re in the age range where you should be worshipping Mr. Valli. Hell, I worship Mr. Valli. Get the fuck out of my face with your sacrilege.
The Smiley Hippie Comedian: Some gray-haired, gigantic, goofy motherfucker with a hippie vibe kept looking at me one morning. He was sitting a few tables away, at one of the bar seats by the window, and I had snagged a small table and was about to sit down. He got up, walked over to me, and asked, “Huhuh, do you have a turtle on your back?” One of my staple accessories is my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles backpack. It holds more than a purse, it’s cuter than a purse, and it keeps me from leaning to one side like Quasimodo. I realize that I’ll get a lot of comments about it, but the ones I like are comments like, “That backpack is awesome!” or, “Cool backpack.” Grinning hippie homeboy did not deliver. Still, being the nice person that I am, I gave him a polite chuckle. His response? “Well, I thought it was funny.” Guess what, asshole? It wasn’t! Sorry if you didn’t like my polite response. Next time, I hope someone gives you a stone-faced glare. If you want to tell jokes that leave no one laughing, go do stand-up comedy. At least you’ll have a captive audience. Now fuck off and let me eat my chocolate deliciousness.
The Weird Salsa-Dancing Scrub: Look, I’m no snob, but I don’t want no scrub. Or Norman Bates. I was sitting at a two-seater table a few years ago when a horse-faced ranga (pronounced RANG-uh, and it’s a slang term for a redhead, because they have hair like orangutans) with a British or South African accent approached my table. He said, “Oh, you ordered the same kind of bagel as me! Would you like to come sit with me over there?” He pointed to a bigger, communal table where some old ladies were sitting, but where there were still empty seats. I looked at my nice, private table with an empty chair still remaining, but I shrugged and got up. I put up with a lot more bullshit back then, I guess. We started talking, and the guy told me his name was Gary. He worked some random job that I quickly forgot. When he got up for napkins, one of the old ladies smiled at me conspiratorially. “He’s very handsome!” she said, nodding. I chalked her assessment up to macular degeneration. No rangas or horse faces for me, ever. After some small talk, Gary asked, “Would you like to come back to my mom’s house for coffee?” Whoa, whoa, whoa. Three immediate red flags. 1. Coffee tastes like burnt assholes, and you are dumb because you just walked past three coffee machines to get napkins. 2. You are a stranger, and I don’t take off with people I just met and go to their houses. 3. YOUR MOM’S HOUSE? Aw, hell, no! When I pointed out all of these things to him, he told me, “It’s fine; my mom doesn’t mind me bringing people over, and I can introduce you! Come on! I’ll teach you how to salsa. It’s a free salsa lesson!” When I insisted that I wasn’t going to be meeting any moms (and somehow refrained from telling any “Your mom!” jokes), he tried another angle. “Ok, then let’s go out to the parking lot. We can dance out there.” Sure, nothing wrong with that. I’ll just mosey on out to the parking lot where people nearly collide on a daily basis, and where all the window seat motherfuckers can watch us and come up to talk to me tomorrow about my parking lot dance.
Gary the Horse-Faced Ranga has been the worst so far (and for the record, I did manage to turn down his persistent salsa lesson offers), but each day, I wonder who will contribute to my next bagel shop horror story.