Last night, I was stuffing my face with Cotton Candy ice cream (I think that’s what teenage prostitutes snack on, right?), CRYING LAUGHING at how much I love this movie. Like, I can’t even get into how much I love this fucking movie.
Zelda Fitzgerald aka @itsmolls answering your questions/getting her life on @plzadvise BE SURE TO TUNE IN ON MONDAY!
Guys, I have a perverted barista. I mean, I don’t “own” him or anything (other than haunting his dreams and stuff). But yes, I have a perverted barista, who works at the coffee shop I frequent regularly, and who is often the person in charge of taking my order for my daily doses of iced coffee and almond milk (ugh, can you guys believe I drink almond milk now?).
But the thing is: this man wasn’t always my perverted barista. He simply used to be, “my friendly barista.” Back in those innocent times: he’d ask me about my day and how things were going in my world, engaging in mild pleasantries right before he’d take my order. However, things have shifted, and now we’ve transitioned from civil and friendly to full-blown perverted over the course of a few weeks.
And I’m not quite sure how we got here, but it is completely, utterly amusing; so I need to share this with you guys. First, let me describe my barista: he’s in his sixties, portly, Latino, sort of a benevolent “Tio/Abuelito” figure, and I would never have suspected that beneath the surface of this smiley, amiable demeanor lurked a pervert of the highest magnitude. God bless him.
For the record, I always seem to attract these types, and it’s fine. Much like Miranda Hobbs, I’ve gotten used to attracting a wide variety of strange and peculiar men, and that’s just my lot! So really, it came as no surprise when my perverted barista first outed himself as a full-blown pervert; because that’s just how my cookies crumble often times.
One day, I debated about ordering a slice of the “World’s Best Coffee Cake.” For the record, it’s not; I just wanted to try something sweet and delicious, and as I debated the merits in my head about whether this coffee cake would be satiating and satisfying or not — I decided to seek the advice of my always chipper, always friendly “Tio Barista.”
Tio Barista assured me that the coffee cake would be absolutely delicious and moist, and he mumbled something about only having the ends left; which honestly flew right by me because I have ADD and got so focused on how amazing that succulent coffee cake would taste in my mouth that I damn near screened out the entire world for a solid minute. Back to reality.
"That’ll be $4.75," he said. "I’m giving you a discount because we only had the ends left." Not thinking I deserved a discount for such a non-inconvenient inconvenience; I assured him that I loved the ends of bread, and he could go right on ahead and charge me full price. Unwittingly, I had walked right into the trap of my perverted barista.
Like a cobra, he struck quickly, and actually took me totally by surprise when he uttered the following words. Suggestively, he looked at me and said: “Oh… you like the ends do you? i like the ends too. In fact, I love eating the ends…” At this point, he grabbed his own buttocks, smiled, and I legit choked on my own saliva out of pure shock, because I could not believe this extremely grown-ass man just casually dropped a rimming joke at me before 10am. I mean, can you guys even fucking believe?!
For what seemed like an eternity, I cackled out loud, turned bright red, and then said that it was ‘no problem for me to eat the ends,’ and that it was totally fine and ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ for giving me the discount. To which he replied, “Oh I bet you do like eating the ends… Are you like me in that regard? Do you like eating the ends…?” By that point, I kinda gave him a Rihanna-esque, “cat that ate the canary”-smile and said, ‘OH HONEY. Yes. I get what you’re saying, and yes, so thanks.’
And that was it. He just giggled and handed me my coffee cake (cake cake cake cake cake), and I smiled and turned behind me to see if anyone else had heard this interaction just to make sure that I didn’t hallucinate it in some weird, psycho-sexual, extremely disturbed day dream. Sadly, there was one witness to this extremely perverted, minute-long discourse; and I felt bad about exposing others to the sick and twisted (but HIGHLY ENTERTAINING ways) of my perverted barista.
It would be about two weeks before my perverted barista struck again. This time, I was better prepared, but I still walked right into the joke. And I felt pretty stupid afterward. But what you guys need to remember is: I didn’t lose my virginity til like 24, and I didn’t masturbate til I was 18, and I was a highly closeted, Catholic-guilt machine up to age 18. So I didn’t cultivate any semblance of sexual humor until much later in my twenties. Also, I think sexual humor can be a little basic, so I stay away from it unless absolutely necessary, but it’s fine. I don’t care. It’s just there, and I’ll pick it up if I feel like a nibble.
Back to my repeat offender. So there I am, standing once again in line, staring at a tuna sandwich pondering the merits of how tasty a tuna sandwich beneath a glass case at a coffee shop could be. I feared what most people should fear about tuna sandwiches in any place besides a restaurant or your own kitchen: would it be fucking disgusting/eventually kill me???
When it was my turn in line, I turned earnestly to my perverted barista, and I asked him what he ‘thought about the tuna’. You see, just weeks before, I had ordered a salmon-cream cheese situation from this same coffee shop; and about 3/4’s of the way into the sandwich, I ate a soggy, sour piece of salmon and almost vomm’d all over myself. It just wasn’t right. Frightened that I’d have a similar experience with the tuna, I asked my barista what he thought, and this is what he said.
"The tuna? Oh it’s pretty good. I really like it. An excellent source of protein… but you know… there’s another great way to get a good source of protein… (wink/wink/nod/nod)"
Once again, I turned around to see if there were any witnesses to this flagrant act of pervertedness. And yes, there was one, straight, hipster dude in a flannel who overheard the interaction (I think?), and I basically just about died right then and there. It was beyond beyond. And I couldn’t, but I could, but I just didn’t.
And I looked at this man and said, ‘DOWN BOY!’ Because that was all kinds of extra, and I laughed for about 24 hours straight about how this perverted-ass man somehow baited me into the perfect question/response via a sickly accurate tuna metaphor.
Driving away from this coffee ship immediately after, I shook my damn head in the truest sense of S.M.D.H. and felt a twinge of gratitude that this perverted, portly, Latino-Blanche Devereaux-type squeezed his brain long enough to semi-sexually harass me in one of the most basic but hysterical ways ever. So GOD BLESS HIM, long may my Perverted Barista reign.
No matter where we are, or who we become, we will always be PRIVATE SCHOOL GIRLS (who love tacos+margaritas). @lesliegrossman (at Marix Tex Mex Restaurants)