They should just market this as a people repellant.
Because, people – me, at any rate – need a buffer.
Yeah, don’t kid yourself, Today I (didn’t) Learned…why they call this Bufferin. Although, the bros that just walked into the Arthouse Cafe – f&b was renamed and rebranded to compliment the neighborhood a bit better.
Complete with street art!
Anyway, these bros order food and then execute my trending pet peeve:
Taking the seat closest to me in an empty space!
It’s truly annoying. You’d think my favorite part of this shituation would be that they both started playing videos on their phones.
I mean, why even go out to eat together?!?
But, I noticed they were sports videos, even those these two were obviously gay for each other. Maybe the videos provided distraction enough to keep them from soberly blurting out
I love you, man!
Whatever. I don’t care.
No, the most annoying part of this wordless bromantic breakfast was the gift of allowing me to watch them tossing food into their never-closing mouths and then grind it up before sending it on its way to the poop chute.
Therefore, since I’m not being given my people buffer and there sadly is no pill to rectify that, I’m going to distract you with a story. This happened a few weeks ago while I was working, and since my lil PT gig provides me with an opportunity to interact with people and is decidedly unchallenging, I exploit the opportunity to my maximum amusement.
In this case, it involves taking another pet peeve and making up a fact around it.
Of course, the story starts with a cute guy.
Goes without saying for this ho without a laying? Right?
He was tragically buying smokes and looked under 30, so I carded him. He whips out an out of state ID and I ask if he’s visiting.
No, I’m practically a native, I’ve lived here so long!
What? Oh, wait…are you a native? How long do I have to live here before I can call myself a native?
Stop saying “native”.
Ok, that made me chuckle.
I went on to tell him that natives don’t call themselves native, they call themselves SNOBs – Society of Native Oregon Born.
It’s a thing, but I was vamping, we call ourselves natives all of the time. But he was enjoying my schtick, so I kept playing.
So, how long until I can be a SNOB?
That’s what I was afraid of.
Wah-wah. Look, here’s the deal, being an Oregonian isn’t about time served.
Such wonder and naïveté.
No, it’s fucking Oregon, not a prison sentence.
More laughing, which I take as him begging me to slide deeper into – er…keep going.
Being an Oregonian is about how one drives.
Trick question! You cycle, right?
Yes, but no.
Kinda dying over here…
Alright, alright. Simmer down. It’s how you drive. Specifically, relative to pedestrians.
Oh, really? Wait, wait…the whole “No, you go” thing, right?!?
Partial Credit. That’s the filtering device.
So, transplants see someone at a crosswalk – maybe they see them, pedestrians might not even register to out of towners – and just whiz on by. “Watch out, poor people, I have an automobile!”
But SNOBs stop!
Of course, but more importantly, we stop correctly.
Because there’s a right way.
Yes! This is the difference between a self-proclaimed Native and a SNOB.
Natives fall all over themselves making a show of stopping. Standing on the brake and laying down 10 feet of rubber at the last minute, if need be.
SNOBs understand that crosswalks always exist, even if you can’t see a person nearby, and are ready to stop.
Seems like an arbitrary differentiator…
Does it? Ask the car waiting to cross traffic from the side street while the native driver idles in the intersection in a dissipating cloud of stinky blue tire smoke.
Damnit! I see that all the time!
There ya go.
Ok, the gay bros left.
Thank you for allowing me to distract myself!