Hemorrhoid Café

Work had been as exciting as usual, so when my regularly scheduled quitting time came around I geared up and rode my bike briskly away from the setting sun towards the local coffee spot for some pseudo-intellectual conversation and a cup of burnt-bean java. The short trip became immediately undesirable when my behind touching the seat caused a familiar discomfort associated with the eighth alphanumeric preparation. Delighted that the pressure on my rear while riding to the café didn't cause any blood to seep from my agitated anus, I walked into the establishment with a jolly gait and a grin. Since I wouldn't have to explain the all-too-frequent mysterious rectal bleeding, I launched myself towards the register without delay. Everything was transpiring without a problem until I was caught unawares by the ubiquitous salutation:

"How are you today?"

My practiced response of "Fine" was wiped away but what had been tumbling through my mind at the time and I shocked the whole café when I responded with:

"My hemorrhoids are fuckin' killing me!"

Well, this careless crumb of candor unleashed a state of pandemonium of Biblical proportions. The young couple that had been waiting in line behind me and talking pleasantly about current events immediately turned pale and started out the door. A fellow in a seat towards the window tried to calm his date's tears as she exploded in a fit of shattered naivety. Two middle-aged professionals facing each other at one of the small center tables shot coffee nasally into each other's faces and fine Italian silk ties. This plethora of projectile Parisian blend upset the Barista horribly; causing her to spew the stomach-acid-churned cup of steamed milk she previously imbibed into the inner workings of the espresso machine, boiling instantly. A small group of college students studying algebra in the far corner caught only a faint whisper of my comment and were spared any traumatic life-threatening side effects because they fell instantly unconscious.

The individual most affected, however, was a psychologically deviant Vietnam War veteran who had been sitting alone at a nearby table pontificating on the benefits of shattered glass as a sexual lubricant. When my comment fell onto his ears he immediately clamped his mouth shut, produced a small, ferocious smile, chortled, and spontaneously stomped his newspaper-clad feet upon the floor in harmony with the banging of his duck-taped forehead against the wall. After completing his seven-second rendition of "The Yellow Rose of Texas", he fell sideways into the puddle of urine produced by a lanky reverend on his way into the restroom.

Having stricken such a powerful blow upon the poor, unsuspecting patrons of this conservative, middle-class establishment I decided that my best strategy was to hoist my blood-engorged ass onto my bike-seat and abscond home post-hastily despite the sensation of wearing a razor-wire G-string. Just your typical day at the hemorrhoid café.

This little thing marks the end of the page.