(Minor) Bitches, Moans, and Complaints...

So… after four or five days of wonderfully balmy weather… for these parts, and I’m talking mid-70s to low-80s, in August (!)… it’s “back on your heads, coffee break’s over.” It’s supposed to be 92 today, and I believe we’re quite close to that as I peck out the oh-so-late Thursday post (we’re at 89, I just looked). Which means Happy Hour will be just a lil bit delayed, at least until the sun sinks low enough to be obscured by the trees. I’m looking forward to Happy Hour more than usual today, as the Brown Truck of Happiness stopped by early this afternoon and dropped off my latest shipment of cigars. It should be interesting, as I’m gonna fire up one of those pricey Gurkha Titans and see if the reality of the smoke matches its rather princely sum… which is about three times what I consider usual, customary, and reasonable. I’ll report back, either tomorrow or later today. Tomorrow is much more likely.

―:☺:―

I posted a minor bitch last month about the Cannon AFB Class VI store, mostly about their piss-poor beer inventory and stocking practices. I had a follow-on conversation with the manager of the Class VI on the next beer run following my bitch-moan-complain post, and was told that Trippel (which they’d been out of for a month or so) was a “seasonal” beer and was routinely replaced by New Belgium’s Mothership Wit during the summer. (Minor digression: I bought a sixer of Mothership… and while it’s about as close to “light” beer as I get these days, it won’t become a regular occupant in my fridge, as it’s just too light for my tastes.)

So… imagine my surprise this past week when I see LOTS of Trippel on their shelves! Not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I quietly picked up two sixers of Trippel and just thanked my lucky stars, while simultaneously cursing the manager (under my breath, of course) for lying to me… apparently. Summer ain’t over, AFAIK, and all indications would seem to verify that fact, including New Belgium their-own-selves and my calendar. So why did that woman lie to me?

And, apropos of nothing, it’s Official: Trippel is now the Beer of Choice here at El Casa Móvil De Pennington. Fat Tire has been displaced. The King is dead. Long Live the King!

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Here’s another brief “customer service” tale o’ woe…

Earlier this week I stopped into Subway and bought a sandwich. The clerk, a young 20-something woman... or possibly in her late teens... prepared my order and rang up my purchase. So far, so good.

My bill came to seven Yankee Dollars and 48 cents. I handed the clerk a Jackson, two quarters, a nickel and three pennies. My attempt at reducing the loose change in my pocket apparently confused the Hell out of her, as she looked at me quizzically as she deftly keyed in the amount tendered. You could actually see the light bulb go off over her head as she did so. But then we went downhill, and rapidly, at that. She handed me my dime in change and closed the cash register drawer. Before I could ask “where’s my 13 dollars?” she sez… “Oh, damn!” and then spends the next minute punching all SORTS of keys on the register in a vain attempt to re-open it. “You don’t have a ‘no sale’ key?” I ask. “No,” says she… still punching keys feverishly. Finally she sez “I’ll have to call the manager.” “Wait,” sez I… “sell me a cookie.” “Hunh?” says she. And then… it’s light bulb time, Part Deux. I hand the girl three pennies while laying a dollar bill on the counter. “It’s fifty-three cents,” says she. I heave a deep, deep sigh and tap the dollar bill on the counter, not wanting to confuse the issue further by asking her to take the price of the cookie out of my overdue 13 dollars in change. I’d probably still be at Subway, had I suggested that course of action…

Do I fear for the next generation and the nation, as a whole? Yes. Yes, I DO.