Ahhh...How I Miss the Soccer Moms

Because you know what? I've found something worse. It's true. Hard to believe I know...but yes. Worse than the choking on their own bitterness and supressed rage suburbanites. It's the sad, twitchy little 40 something year old man, living at home in Mommy's basement, basking in the cold, cold glow of his gigantic computer screen as he talks dirty to some 19 year old sexpot in a bikini who is not Lolita2000 at all but sad, balding Henry who is in turn sitting in his basement basking in the glow of his computer screen as he...you get the picture. Now don't get me wrong, I have nothing against the twitchy man/boy glued to his computer if that's where he stays. Nope, nothing at all. To each his own I say. But when he creeps his way out of his hole, his little mole eyes blinking in the unaccustomed glare of daylight and scurries his pouchy ass into a booth in my restaurant and proceeds to talk to my tits (I know they're compelling but come on...they're not tractor beams) while asking me the same question over and over again with marginally different phrasing each time then I have a problem. The problem being that society has deemed it inappropriate for me to stab him in his beady little eye with my pen. Yep. A problem indeed. Actually, in retrospect it's kind of funny. He started out just a little creepy with his high waisted khaki pants (I seem to be detecting a pattern here...do all assholes wear khaki - like all women with no upper lips are mean?), pastel shirt and shifty eyes. A little creepy. But then as we talked (not my choice let me tell you) his eyes started to wander...just a little twitch at first. A quick, guilty glance down and then back to the face! Acceptable. Not my favourite thing to do on a sunny summer day but I can dig it. We wear tight shirts and I have large boobs. I'm not entirely unsympathetic. But as the...conversation? experience? encounter? what the hell do you call it anyway? continued (and by continued I mean dragged) on the glances got a little longer and a little less guilty until finally the contact was continuous and unblinking even, at which point I chose to take the high road and walk away (the low road being a swift kick to the balls, assuming his mother doesn't keep them at home in a jar on her mantlepiece). I mean honestly. I had to go home and have a really long, really hot shower just to feel clean again and all he left me for a tip was $1.60. What's up with that? And I'm done.