blondieenyc

If you’re an avid reader of my blog, then you know how much I hate kids.  Okay, I don’t hate every kid, just kids I don’t know who sit behind me in movie theaters and talk to their parents throughout the entire movie.  And no, that totally didn’t happen to me this week and no, I almost didn’t throw my bag of popcorn on to his balding father and busting out of the pants mother.  My boytoy and I even “SHHHHHHHUSHED” a mil times to only have the mother go “okay, okay we have to whisper,” bitch this is a movie theater, not a fucking county fair.  Well, I hate old bitchy people the same, if not more.

Anyway, last Friday I payced out of work 45 minutes early.  I ended up getting to Penn Station around 4:28 and had 12 minutes to spare before my train departed.  What was even more beautiful was that my track was right next to McDonalds and I was craving their High-C orange drink.  You all know that delicious tasting treat.

So I skipped my ass over to McDonalds and awaited a rounded, pudgy cashier to get me my delicious tasting treat.  Off to the right to me were these two overweight women in their 60’s who wouldn’t be able to dress themselves even if Armani himself served as their personal fashion designer.  Pudgy McPudgerson looks at me and asks what I want so I walk up and tell her “I want my delicious tasty treat that leaves a terrible taste in my mouth” (insert joke here.) aka “Can I have a small orange hi-c?” Now to my right the ladies are still hanging around the registers and I see the one with her hand on her hip, giving me the eye.

Okay so I KNOW I always think someone is staring at me so I had to double-take to make sure this one was for real.  I did and caught the most tragic and unfortunate looking face.  I quickly turned my head to face the register again to avoid dead on illness that for sure was contagious from that God awful looking puss face.

“ARE YOU JUST BLIND TO US? WE’RE NOT BEING HELPED!” said the old bag to another pudge meister while quickly shooting me another look.  Pudge meister #2 tells her to come to my left and that she’ll serve her.  As I’m thinking wonderful thoughts of my could be bigger and fuller lips wrapping around the straw to enter a sweet blissful world of orange loveliness, I’m instead met by Satan. “NEXT TIME MIND YOUR MANNERS,” said the old bitch to MOI.

God, I had been waiting for something like this all week.  If it wasn’t a little kid I was allowed to hit on the head with my cola, an old lady who’s had enough time on this planet would suffice.  I give her the WTF look which everyone knows consists of a head cock back, a semi parted mouth with a lip up, quizzical eyes, and the zinger…hands turned on their palms to give the “huh?”

She basically tells me “You know what you did” claiming I cut a hag in line.  I thought bitch was waiting for Big Mac scented depends, so excuse my mistake.  So that was that.  I told the old bitch to shut it and to ”Mind her mouth” because she was sitting next to me at the machine waiting for fucking God himself to stuff her face with french fries and that this was NEW YORK and no one serves you unless you fucking open your crusty mouth.  Oh, by the way these broads wanted an ICED COFFEE…hell-fucking-o there’s a Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts located right across in Penn.

Her fat friend then told her “It’s not worth it” in like this terribe manish voice that sounded like it took one too many cum hits in the early 80s.  Friend continues, “say whatever you want about her to me”…mind you she’s trying to whisper at this point, but my super bionic ears heard a bitch.

After Pudge McPudgerson handed me my special drink (why it took so long, I have no idea—had I not been so invested in being a tough chick for the last five minutes, I’d have realized it was taking longer than usual), I took my tasty treat with pride, went right into the old broad’s face and shouted “YOU SAY WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT TO SAY ABOUT ME TO MY FACE.”

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t appropriate and maybe that wasn’t mature, but those bitches have at least 40 years on my ass…so who’s the mature one really?

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