I ran into GhettoGas this morning in desperate need of a bottled water and found myself trapped in line between an elderly hobo and his girlfriend, both of whom were buying plastic bottles of gin. The hobo was covered in, I swear to God, gallons of what I assume was his own urine and his gal pal was so happy about it, she couldn’t stop flashing her lone pearly white.
Christ! I thought to myself. Just get me into the suburbs.
This morning called for real coffee, so I cheated on Mohammed at SuburbaGas and went straight to Peet’s.
The Mill Valley Peet’s Coffee is the official morning hot spot. EVERYONE is there, with their purebred dogs, Patagonia fleeces and constant discussions on the atrocities of war. Normally, I wouldn’t be willing to wade through the dregs of Banana Republic devotees but I had to have some serious coffee as opposed to the brown, slightly flavored, slightly warm water Mohammed offers. I stood in the freakishly long line and waited my turn, attempting to ignore the couple high-fiving over Rumsfeld’s retirement.
I took my large coffee over to the milk and sugar kiosk and attempted to throw elbows. Anyone with the slightest bit of common sense knows not to loiter in this highly trafficked area, but some jackass in a tie-dyed (yes, tie-dyed) shirt actually has the audacity to rest his ass upon it as he conversed with some poor, obviously desperate 30-something. I was forced to listen in and heard the disturbing, “I know the difference between right and wrong.”
Apparently not, according to that shirt.
He then went on to discuss his horrible relationship with his parents and how he doesn’t believe in “toxic” familial ties. All this in the time it took me to dump some milk and 2 Splendas into my coffee.
I bitch and moan about the ghetto, but truth be told, those are my peeps. By the time I made it out of there, I was ready to pound some gin with pee bum and his toothless ho…