incredibly screwed-up budgetary process, which is a real let down after being able to basically do whatever the hell we wanted without oversight. It’s not like we were grossly irresponsible or anything, but when you’re as big as me—over six feet, with the long legs to match—bitching about sitting in coach comes as naturally as the urge to find a restroom when you’ve got a full bladder.
Oh, how I miss the days of money.
The pay cut hurt, too. I’m getting paid like a brand-new government worker, not a single ounce of seniority. If my room and board weren’t covered, I’m pretty sure I’d be making minimum wage.
Anyway, I’m sitting in this cantina, buying my own drinks on my government credit card, when—surprise, surprise—my sister’s interview with Gail Roth, that witch from the National News Channel comes up on a soundbite while they’re interviewing a congressman about the ‘meta problem.’ That’s what they call it when they’re being sensitive. It was not a good interview. Sienna, as hard as she tried—and there’s some doubt in my mind that she tried very hard, honestly—came off kind of … snide. Snarky. Sarcastic.
So, basically, like herself.
Anyway, that did not go over well in the media, where it was felt that she was perhaps being a little obnoxious to Gail Roth, a well-established, well-liked mama badger and proxy for every reporter out there. The news panel shows turned pretty ugly for the next few days, and the Department of Homeland Security made some bullshit excuse and canceled every other appearance they’d had Sienna scheduled for. It looked bad, but sending her out to do more interviews probably would have been worse. A lot worse.
But oh, how they loved to trot out clips from the interview for entertainment value. They always seem to cut them just right, too, to make Sienna look even more petulant.
Thankfully, the bar’s TV is on mute. I carefully avert my eyes from the scrolling black box of text running across the bottom of the screen with its frequent misspellings. I have a margarita in front of me, the remains of a quesadilla staring up from my plate, and I decide I ain’t got time for this shit. I’m about two seconds from speaking up to get the bartender to change it when loud, obnoxious voices—probably cable news anchors—reach my ears.
“I’d like to show her my power,” one guy down the bar says to his buddy next to him. They’re both wearing suits, their ties loosened, a full beer mug in front of each of them. Sitting their fat, middle-aged asses on the blue bar stools, a barely sober mess in the middle of the cantina. The cantina is an explosion of color. These two assclowns are a black hole in the middle of the place, all serious business. Except for what they’re saying. It’s serious bullshit.
The second guy chuckles, waiting to hear the joke. “You’re not one of them, are you? You ain’t got a power, do ya?”
“My power,” the first guy says, and he’s just barely slurring, any good judgment he has washed away in the river of beer he’s taken down, “is to rock her bed all—night—long.” He emphasizes each syllable of the last three words with perverted glee, and his companion is beset by a wicked case of the giggles.
A gust of wind—sudden, violent, and strangely out of nowhere—blasts the stools from beneath both of their asses and they topple to the floor. There’s a clatter as other furniture is disturbed by this mysterious atmospheric phenomenon, this strange wind that blows from down the bar, originating … well, gosh, just about from my seat. How about that. Weird, huh?
Their landings are spectacular. Both are doused with beer, unprepared for the sudden meeting of their asses and the cold tile floor. I take a drink of my lovely margarita to hide my pride in making the introduction. There are protestations of surprise, bewildered confusion from both the drunks as well as the bartender and the wait staff. During the
Oh, how I miss the days of money.
The pay cut hurt, too. I’m getting paid like a brand-new government worker, not a single ounce of seniority. If my room and board weren’t covered, I’m pretty sure I’d be making minimum wage.
Anyway, I’m sitting in this cantina, buying my own drinks on my government credit card, when—surprise, surprise—my sister’s interview with Gail Roth, that witch from the National News Channel comes up on a soundbite while they’re interviewing a congressman about the ‘meta problem.’ That’s what they call it when they’re being sensitive. It was not a good interview. Sienna, as hard as she tried—and there’s some doubt in my mind that she tried very hard, honestly—came off kind of … snide. Snarky. Sarcastic.
So, basically, like herself.
Anyway, that did not go over well in the media, where it was felt that she was perhaps being a little obnoxious to Gail Roth, a well-established, well-liked mama badger and proxy for every reporter out there. The news panel shows turned pretty ugly for the next few days, and the Department of Homeland Security made some bullshit excuse and canceled every other appearance they’d had Sienna scheduled for. It looked bad, but sending her out to do more interviews probably would have been worse. A lot worse.
But oh, how they loved to trot out clips from the interview for entertainment value. They always seem to cut them just right, too, to make Sienna look even more petulant.
Thankfully, the bar’s TV is on mute. I carefully avert my eyes from the scrolling black box of text running across the bottom of the screen with its frequent misspellings. I have a margarita in front of me, the remains of a quesadilla staring up from my plate, and I decide I ain’t got time for this shit. I’m about two seconds from speaking up to get the bartender to change it when loud, obnoxious voices—probably cable news anchors—reach my ears.
“I’d like to show her my power,” one guy down the bar says to his buddy next to him. They’re both wearing suits, their ties loosened, a full beer mug in front of each of them. Sitting their fat, middle-aged asses on the blue bar stools, a barely sober mess in the middle of the cantina. The cantina is an explosion of color. These two assclowns are a black hole in the middle of the place, all serious business. Except for what they’re saying. It’s serious bullshit.
The second guy chuckles, waiting to hear the joke. “You’re not one of them, are you? You ain’t got a power, do ya?”
“My power,” the first guy says, and he’s just barely slurring, any good judgment he has washed away in the river of beer he’s taken down, “is to rock her bed all—night—long.” He emphasizes each syllable of the last three words with perverted glee, and his companion is beset by a wicked case of the giggles.
A gust of wind—sudden, violent, and strangely out of nowhere—blasts the stools from beneath both of their asses and they topple to the floor. There’s a clatter as other furniture is disturbed by this mysterious atmospheric phenomenon, this strange wind that blows from down the bar, originating … well, gosh, just about from my seat. How about that. Weird, huh?
Their landings are spectacular. Both are doused with beer, unprepared for the sudden meeting of their asses and the cold tile floor. I take a drink of my lovely margarita to hide my pride in making the introduction. There are protestations of surprise, bewildered confusion from both the drunks as well as the bartender and the wait staff. During the
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