The Hangover 3

I keep hearing that to be a successful blogger you have to constantly provide your readers with new material. But, to be honest, I'm still pretty hungover and that just seems like more work than I'm looking for today. So here's some cats doing stuff on YouTube. You people like this shit, right?

The Dirty South

I keep getting told by rappers that I live in the dirty south. And by "dirty" I think they mean the "slightly bigoted and still pretty pissed about the Civil War" south.  Although, for the most part the people who attend KKK rallies and believe the term "colored" is politically correct can be avoided. That is until one of these people takes off their "Mel Gibson was Right" t-shirt and sneaks their way into your life.

The other day, a young lady that I have lovingly spoke about in a previous post decided to share some of her opinions on race. Long story short, she's likes to thank the Lord every day that he made her "a white," which makes absolutely no sense because she has made it her life mission to look like Snooki.

Normally, I know how to respond when people say things I don't agree with.

"I think Michele Bachmann will make a great president."
 Yep, and her closet-case husband will be the best first lady ever.


Something like that. However, I was so stunned by her brazen confession that I didn't say anything. I left work angry with myself. I wanted to go back in there and tell her that I was not in her white-trash honkey club. I wanted to tell her that I would literally dry hump Taye Diggs' bald head if given the opportunity.

But I didn't. Instead, I told my boss and she wrote her up and explained that if anything else was ever said she would be fired. Bosslady recommended that we teach this 19-year-old twat a new way of thinking.

So, I open the question to some of my followers. Can someone be taught tolerance? If this orange-faced idiot is exposed to the idea of equality, will she eventually realize that her previous thoughts were wrong? Can this bronzer-dipped lady douche be rehabilitated?

And if not... should I beat her with a pillowcase full of dimes or nickels?

No Shirt. No Shoes. No Silverware.

Sometimes I worry that you guys don't understand how backwoods the town I work in is. As an accomplished writer on Blogger, I know that the reader's level of belief is extremely important when it comes to crafting a story.  So, just to make sure there is no doubt about the ridiculousness of this place, I decided to bring in an outside source.

Below is a Facebook status from a co-worker and resident of aforementioned town.

That's All.

Babies, Babies, Everywhere

Last week I had to take a short break from sharing my tales of Barista-ing to ensure that I will never give birth vaginally. Yep, my best friend had a baby.

I don't believe anyone can fully be prepared for what happens when a little person comes into the world. It's something like this. And while I like to think that I am a badass motherfucker (or a BAMF as you crazy kids are calling it these days) giving birth is possibly the most gangster thing anyone can do. Suck on that, Chris Brown.

In more baby news, my brother and his child-bride are also knocked up. This instance makes me a little more nervous. One, because I'm afraid of what childbirth will do to my brother's 12-year-old baby mama. Two, because my families genes will be passed down (I promise I will tell you guys about them when I think you can handle it).

However, I can't say that the idea of being an aunt isn't exciting. I mean, I'm going to be able to teach this little bastard to string together expletives like none other.

"Fuck you, you whoreface supercunt. I don't want to eat broccoli." -Max, Jr. Age 4

Aww, my heart swells with pride at the thought.

Now, I'm off to try and stab my ovaries with a metal clothes-hanger just in case this shit is contagious.

America's Got Talent: Barista Edition

I have decided to add a new segment to this blog that features barista talent. I hope this will prove that baristas are more than just skilled coffee makers, they are gifted human beings. Now, watch as Crystal shoves her fist in her mouth.

I Don't Hate My Job, Per Se

Most of the time I use this blog as an outlet to vent about the trials of customer service. In fact, it was born from a frustration that comes when people wearing sleeveless "Git-R-Done" t-shirts ask if you are retarded.

Although, I've been thinking lately (since I learned my boss found my blog) that I might be giving a bad impression. You might have been led to believe that I hate my job, which couldn't be further from the truth. I know my nearly-incoherent, anger-fueled ramblings rate on the batshit-crazy Richter scale right underneath Tea-Party member, but to be honest, I've been emotionally unstable long before I learned to make a dry cappuccino (I'll tell you guys about my parents later).

So I decided to combat this negative perception by listing a few reasons why I love my job.

1. Health Insurance, Bitches! I get coverage for part-time work and with my love of NyQuil and deep-rooted childhood issues, it won't be long before I need some Lohan-style rehab.
2. My company makes it a point to embrace diversity in every form. And you know what that means... Yep, I get to work with a drag queen.
3. A lot of my customers are lovely, kind people, who I love to interact with. They will roll their eyes with me when one of the "git-r-done guys" questions my competency.
4. Free Coffee. Nothing funny. Just awesome.
5. Material. This shit writes itself.

Now, see guys I don't hate my job. It's a wonderful place. And if my boss is reading this, I want to let you know I respect you're authority and will stop calling people fucktards while they are in ear shot.

WARNING: This Post You're About to Enjoy is Extremely Hot

Today I was reviewing some of my blogs stats  (you know, how many views I've gotten, where they came from, and if any of those people are convicted child molesters) I noticed an option to see what search words people most often used when they stumbled upon my little blog. Wanna know what they were?

Let's see: HORNY SEMI NUDE BARISTAS. PLAYBOY BARISTA. HORNY BARISTAS. BAD PLAYBOY GIRLS HORNY.

So it seems people are coming to my blog looking for porn, and I can't help but think "Damn, they must be disappointed." I mean, I've been told that I swear like a $2 whore, however that accusation doesn't really represent any of my day to day activities.

I almost feel bad. I know I get super pissed when I'm googling ways to poison customers and instead I get sent poison control. So I can only imagine how these presumably middle-aged, world-of-warcraft playing coffee fetishists feel when instead of finding tawdry blog posts about horny, playboy playmate baristas they find me bitching about out-of-towners or the regular who always forgets to flush the toilet.

I decided that since I'm not really a barista, I would do all these creepy bastards a favor and be a pornographer. So for today only call me Allie Flint.

You Are Welcome.