If you’re a member of my forum, you probably already know that I picked up a second job at a bagel shop to pay off my debt. The shop is in a snobby part of town, and I have to deal with elitist yuppies that would sooner claw your eyes out than treat you with an ounce of respect or dignity. Thank God for expensive manicures. Otherwise, I’m sure my eyes would have been made into shish kebobs by now. I’m serious here. Strippers get more respect than me. And I probably have bigger tits.
Anyway, on the anniversary of the day when many American citizens jumped to their deaths from a building with a fucking airplane hanging sinisterly out of one of the floors, I was rotting in the bagel shop. I didn’t have access to a television or a radio. So if shit went down again, I was going to be disappointingly out of the action. Clueless, even.
Then it happened. I glanced out the window and all I saw was smoke. Two panicked yuppies came running into the bagel shop screaming, “Fire! Fire!” Could it be? Could the bagel shop be under terrorist attack? Could I really be that lucky?
Not very damn likely.
My boss ran over to the window, looked outside, and said with a bored sigh, “I’ll go get a bucket of water.” Apparently, some dumb yuppie had thrown a lit cigarette into the foliage causing one of the bushes to catch fire. It has yet to be determined if the yuppie in question was Arabic.
The fire was a minor one. In fact, you could have probably pissed on the fire and put it out. But the snobs were still in an uproar. One monster sized yuppie that was about a foot taller and 100lbs heavier came barreling over to me like some primitive barracuda. “GO GET A BUCKET OF WATER!” he bellows into my small, barely upturned face.
Barely upturned, I might add, because I was busy heading for the door. First of all, if shit is going to go down on 9-11, I am INTENT on being part of the action. Secondly, if the bagel shop is going to burn down, I’m not going to be in the store when it happens. No way, no how. And if I have to knock a couple of toddlers to the ground before I get safely across the street, so be it. I will not, under any circumstances die in my bagel uniform.
But I graciously stopped to offer some amount of comfort to the old, fat, fire-breathing yuppie. “Don’t worry, sir,” says I, “Someone has gone to get a bucket of water. Everything is under control.” Feeling as though my work there were done, I about-faced and headed, once again, for the door.
Then he pushed me.
I kid you not. I had barely walked two steps when I felt his meaty paw clobber me in the back and almost knock me flat on my face. I couldn’t believe it! This grown man had pushed me. And I would also like to point out once again that I am about a foot shorter, 15 years younger, and 100lbs lighter. I’m petite, goddamn it! And he PUSHED me!
Not only did he push me, but he waited to do it when my back was turned! This sissy mary couldn’t even….push me to my face!
Er…you know what I mean.
“GO GET ANOTHER ONE!” he howls.
“Don’t push me,” I answer. I glared at him in disgust until he exited the building, got into his over-priced car, and drove his cowardly ass away.
That sad part is, if I would have socked him in the jaw or shouted a much deserved profanity, I would have gotten fired.
I have enough indignities in my life without being physically assaulted by people who, by the very large number in their checking accounts, are stereotypically assumed to have more class and tact than me.
If there were any justice in this world, some nice, well-meaning terrorist would crash an airplane into his $400,000 house.
And I would be there to take a picture.
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