Stop staring at me! And stop saying Barko Bama.

It's funny, actually, literally seconds after I finished reading the Something Awful article entitled The Anonymous Abject Moron Complaint Box, the motorcycle-accident-retarded-guy (MARG, mentioned here) who frequents the coffee shop came up to me and struck up a conversation with a pair of my customers. Guy 1 is wearing a striped shirt and a beret, and MARG says, "Are you from France?"

"No," says Guy 1, "I've never been."

"They're really rude over there," exclaims MARG.

Guy 1's wife helpfully (and surprisingly mercifully considering who she's dealing with; he's obnoxious, ok?) pipes in to tell MARG he should take people one at a time, and of course he doesn't understand what she's talking about, so then she tells him not to make sweeping generalizations like that. He gives her another blank stare and she gives up and goes away to drink her coffee.

Next thing you know, one of the dudes who works in the bookstore walks in for his shift and MARG says, "So how do you like that Barko Bama?"

Coincidence? I think so!

Bookstore guy utters some praise for Ron Paul and the collective politically aware portion of the coffee shop population rolls their eyes, meanwhile I wish they'd talk about something important, like sports.

Tonight B has to go to some kind of fancy-dress awards banquet because he won some kind of fancy-pants mystery award, and I have to doll myself up because I'm his guest, along with his mom.

All my dressy clothes aren't very good, but maybe no one will notice.

Fuck, MARG is talking to me again.

Yes. The gingerbread white mocha will definitely, "suh-sock your [long pause] socks off."

I'm starting to agree with my boss in that MARG is so faking this shit. No one can be this retarded and still have a driver's license. I don't get the motivation, but it's all the same...PHONY! A BIG FAT PHONY.