The Man Cave

The Man Cave
Jack's Man Cave (Click on the photo to enter the Cave)
Showing posts with label Family Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family Life. Show all posts

Thursday, January 28, 2021

Family Intervenes to Make Man Stop Delaying Stool Sample Test

"Family Intervenes to Make Man Stop Delaying Stool Sample Test"


 Chula Vista Times

A wife's pain

A wife and children held an "intervention" last week to convince a 52-year-old husband and father to mail in the colon cancer test sent to him two years ago on his 50th Birthday.  Family and friends do not understand George Clooney's (real name withheld) refusal to move.

"I tried a professional intervention-type person," said wife Trixie (not real name). "But the assh*** kept laughing and making jokes like 'that's not really what I doo.'  'Real funny,' I said, then hung up."

Swirl of emotions

Family and friends had mixed emotions when they found out the reason for the gathering held last Friday at the family home.

"They wouldn't tell us what it was about, so when I dropped by the house and plopped on the couch I was ready to talk about almost anything.  There's about four or five different issues he's got way bigger than this.  This whole stool thing just snuck up on me.  I never saw it coming," said Mikey, Trixie's brother.

Mother-in-law "Judes" (not real name) was actually "relieved."

"When I found out what it was about, I said 'you've got to be sh**ting me,'" said the registered nurse and former Rockette.

Sons smell desperation

Speaking with Clooney's two high-schooled aged sons, they expressed frustration at the logjam and father's refusal to budge. 

"It's pretty sad.  Dad's stared at the envelope on his desk for two whole years without pulling the trigger. It embarrasses me.  He taught me everything I know about . . . I used to look up to him when it came to things like this," said Son #1 (name withheld for privacy).

"He's always telling us what we should be doing . . . like 'go read a book' or 'you should brush your teeth more often.'  I say, 'Well, you should go do your poo test.'  That always shuts him right up and gets him off my back," said Son #2.

Stool test envelope, probably stale

Friends tapping toes, gnashing teeth

Family friends said they could only wait so long.

"I squared up to him and said it was time to 'sh** or get off the pot,'" said friend Phil McCracken (not real name). "I said 'be a man, you got a lot of people depending on you around here.' Depends, get it?" (Laughing).

"I told the family, don't let him watch the Super Bowl unless he does the test, y'know.  It's like 'hop on the bowl, or no Bowl,'" said family friend Seymour Butts (not real name).

The family says George spends hours in the bathroom sitting playing his guitar anyway, so they never understood the reluctance to take the potentially life-saving stool sample.

"I've heard him in there squeezing out all of Side 2 of 'Dark Side of the Moon. ' Badly mind you, but without even a break between songs," said Trixie.  "This should be right up his alley."

Signs of softening

Speaking to George Clooney directly, we tried to get the straight poop.

"I just couldn't be arsed about it," said Clooney (not his real name).  "Every day, I  said to myself, 'let's push it to tomorrow.'  Something unexpected always popped up, like the whole COVID-19 thing, then the Tiger King show, and Bitcoin. I didn't want to hold up any of the mail-in ballots either. When the Padres lost in the playoffs, I got really down in the dumps." 

The family compromised and told Clooney they'll be looking for the stool to be in the mail by the end of the week, or he cannot pick squares on their Super Bowl Bingo craps table. 

© Jack Clune 2021

Friday, August 14, 2020

I Need To Be Rescued From My Rescue Dog

I Need To Be Rescued From My Rescue Dog

And my family thinks it's funny



My wife rescued a cute female boxer

My wife rescued a boxer about a year ago. She’s a cute black boxer, whose name was “Princess” when we got her, but we changed her name to “Perseus.” We call her “Perse” for short. Tracy thought our other male boxer Atticus needed company.

Perseus does not like men. She must have been abused by males. Perse is about six-years-old. When we first got her, she was a real scaredy-cat, wincing and running away at the slightest sounds or movements. Mostly my sounds and movements. Perse clung to my wife Tracy like one of those protective dragons on Game of Thrones. Tracy could do no wrong.

When Tracy picked Perse up, the woman who rescues boxers told her,

“She doesn’t like men, and she’s real protective of me.” The Boxer Lady added, “Princess still growls at my husband.”

Perse really doesn’t like certain men. Like me.

Tracy brought Perse home, and our two sons fawned over her because she has a really cute, human-like face, with human expressions. You can always tell what Perse is thinking.

My sons are males. But Perse never barked at them.

But every time Perse sees me in the morning, she begins growling and barking. When we first got her, Perse would stand by the side of the bed where I was sleeping, and growl at me, waking me up. Waking me up to a new day. With her growling.

That kinda set the tone for a lot of my days. As a personal injury lawyer, I am confronted with lots of fake growling and barking all day long, on the phone, and in-person in court and at depositions. But this real growling and barking actually kinda disturbed me. It got to me, and I felt like an unwelcome stranger in my own home. My sons loved it.

As time went on

As time went on, Perse wouldn’t wake me but waited to growl and bark at me when she got downstairs with my wife.

As soon as my feet hit the hardwood floor, the growling would begin downstairs. Then I would mope down the stairs, with Perse growling and barking at me like Cujo. That went on for nine months. Every single day.

My rat fink sons still laugh when Perse growls and barks at me. They think it’s funny. I hear them laughing in their bedrooms. Or if they’re already at the breakfast table, they laugh and point at me while the dog barks.

I don’t try hard enough

Tracy would explain.

“You just don’t try hard enough. You need to get down on your hands and knees. Get down to Perse’s level and show her you’re a good person.”

I’m in the kitchen, and I have my back turned at this point, just trying to get a cup of coffee. Perse is growling ferociously, and now our other boxer, Atticus, gets in on the action because . . . why let Perse have all the fun.

Now the two dogs are leaping in the air and growling and barking at me, like the Dobermans in Magnum PI.

And I’m a “bad person” too

“Dogs know!” Tracy shouts.

Oh God no. Not the “Dogs and babies know” speech. Please God, no. Not the speech!

“Dogs and babies know! They know when a person is bad. They can sense it. They’re always right!” says Tracy.

The boys are laughing hysterically now.

“Yeah, Dad, you’re bad,” says Son #1, laughing his ass off.

My sons are traitors or no goddamn help at all

I look at Son #1 with a complete sense of betrayal on my face. Now I am bent over, with both my hands out defensively, with coffee spilling over the rim of the cup, as I try to back out of the kitchen, towards my man cave.

“It’s not an angry bark. See, Perse’s wagging her tail!” explains Tracy. Just like Tracy has explained it the last 225 days in a row.

Perse is now crouched, and the hair on her back is standing on end.

“You don’t try hard enough. It’s your fault,” says Tracy. “Don’t be such a . . . such a buffoon!”

Now that’s an interesting concept. Because several times, towards the end of the day, I’ve sat with Perse on my lap, and I’ve petted her gently. But every morning is like Ground Hog’s Day.

“Dad, I think Perse has Alzheimer’s disease,” said Son #2 while we were sitting in the jacuzzi one day. “I don’t think she has all her marbles in her head.”

“I think you’re right, son,” I said.

Perse is a bad influence on Atticus

Back to the kitchen. I continue to back away, like Odysseus retreating away from two, er, Cerberus — es.

When I think the time is right, I turn and do my Olympic “fast walk” for the man cave door.

Atticus stays after me.

“Atticus, you old fool, quit acting like Perse!” I yell, trying to get a laugh from the sadists in the other room. “Perse, look what a bad influence you are!”

That’s when Atticus jumped up and bit my ass right through my Adidas dri-Fit running shorts, and made me throw my coffee up in the air against the ceiling.

The tips of his upper and bottom incisors touch one another, through the soft creamy flesh of my ass cheek.

"Jesus Christ! Ouch. Owwwwwww!”

Big laughs in the other room.

“Is he wagging his tail?!” I scream.

© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune 

Friday, July 31, 2020

No, I Was Not at Arby's Today. The Agony of Identity Theft

No, I Was Not at Arby's Today. The Agony of Identity Theft

It shouldn't be that big a deal to let everyone know I have a new debit card


It’s 4:15 pm Friday afternoon . . .

“You see that somebody just tried to charge $6.95 at Arby’s this afternoon?” shouts my wife from the kitchen. She is looking at our online banking on her laptop.

“No! Really?” I ask.

“Were you at Arby’s?” she asks.

“No. I’ve been here all day. With you.” I say.

“Oh god, and look, here’s a charge at Walmart. For $12.32. Did you go to Walmart?” she asks, coming into the man cave.

“No Dear. I’ve been here all day. See what I’m wearing here? I haven’t left the house,” I say standing up at my desk. I’m wearing an ill-fitting dri-fit Adidas running shirt, Adidas shorts, with Adidas socks pulled up to my knees and bedroom slippers.

“Are you sure you didn’t go to Arby’s?” she asks again.

I take a deep breath.

“Tracy. I’ve been sitting here all day. Working on all my cases, writing my memoir and my Medium articles. And I never go to Arby’s. I go to Foster’s Freeze. But I never go to Arby’s,” I say.

“You need to call the bank and tell them there’s fraudulent charges,” my wife says.

“Yes. I know that now,” I say.

“You need to call right away. Because they’re obviously on a spending spree.”

“Yes, Dear. See my fingers here? I’m dialing the bank. My fingers are dialing the bank right now” I say, lifting my phone up, and pointing at it.

“You must have screwed up. You must have let somebody have your PIN,” she says.

“No, Dear. I did not give anyone my PIN. I’m careful with my PIN.” I say.

“Well, how did they get your PIN? This happens all the time with you,” she says.

It’s kind of true. It does seem to happen to me every six months.

“It’s not my fault. There’s a dark web. With teen hackers in Russia. I saw it on ‘Crime Watch Daily’.”

“Well, it never happens to me,” she says.

“Dear. I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s the criminals’ fault. It’s not my fault, Dear,” I say.

“Remember that time you yelled your PIN out, inside the Target?” she asks.

“That’s because the cashier asked me for it. That was five years ago. And you were making me nervous standing there,” I say.

“You need to call the bank right away,” she says, going back to the kitchen. I hear her mutter “buffoon” under her breath.

. . .

I call the bank. The nice lady on the phone says:

“Yes, we had flagged those charges, and we were getting ready to call you,” she says.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say. “Where was the Arby’s?”

“The Arby’s was in West Covina California, and the Walmart was in Azusa, California. Were you at any of those places?”

“No. I’m in San Diego. You should see what I’m wearing.”

“Okay, well I’m canceling your debit card and sending you a new one. Please destroy your old card. The new card will arrive in 7 to 10 days.”

. . .

I feel proud of myself for calling the bank, so I head to the kitchen for a snack.

“This is going to screw everything up,” says my wife. “All the automatic payments are tied to that card.”

“Oh, well. You know, it won’t be that big a deal. We’ll just have to report the new card number when we get it,” I say.

I start putting the little cocktail hot dogs on a baking sheet and get the oven going.

My wife turns and looks at me. She shakes her head. Then puts her hand over her eyes, looks down, and exhales deeply. “No big deal he says,” my wife mutters, putting her head down on the counter. Then she says:

“I don’t know how you’re such a successful trial attorney. How can the juries take you seriously?”

That one hurts.

My two sons come down the stairs and have the nerve to shake their heads at me. Like this is all my fault.

. . .

I’ve got 22 minutes until the mini hot dogs are ready.

I get back to the man cave and look at my computer screen. There’s a bunch of new emails.

Here’s one from Dropbox.

URGENT. Payment Failure: We just tried to process you’re Semi-Annual fee but were unsuccessful. Today was the day it was due. If we do not receive payment, all of your lawyer stuff will be deleted quickly. We’ll make sure you can’t get your pdf files back either.
Don’t plan on working from home anymore. Plan on moving all the file boxes into Tracy’s new home gym area.

Here’s one from AT&T.

Your AT&T scheduled payment . . . . FAILED. All of your cell phones will be shut off. Soon.
We’re going to shut your wife’s phone off too. She will have to get a new phone number too, and not be able to use the one she’s always had since the early 90’s when “Friends” was on.

Suddenly, the Doobie Brothers song “Minute by Minute” stops playing on my computer. A prompt pops up on my Sonos app.


“Oh my god!” I say aloud. “No!”

There’s a voicemail on my phone too? I put my Bluetooth earpiece in, and listen to the message. It’s a computerized voice, like Siri.

This is Umbilical Cords Plus. Your payment FAILED. You have 24 hours, holidays and weekends included to update your card on file, or we will throw the two cords out.
Friday is trash day around here. The cords have been laying around here for 14 and 15 years. That would be a damn shame. 

© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune

Wednesday, July 29, 2020

Life Was Better Before the Internet

Life Was Better Before the Internet

Nobody knew where you were. Or what you were doing


The only technology I had as a kid was a watch with a calculator on it. And they wouldn't even let you wear it at school.

Nobody knew where you were . . .

Nobody expected to see you until dinner time. No matter how old you were.

Or what you were doing

Nobody saw you playing on the heavy equipment in the abandoned, half-built housing development.

Or getting hit by a car, and shaking it off.


Nobody filmed the dumb stuff you did . . .

Nobody recorded you trying to imitate that kid who could stand on his bike with no hands. (Don’t believe me, please click on the underlined words). You just fell hard, severely sprained your wrist, crawled away, and cried alone in peace.

Or the cool stuff either

Nobody recorded the Little League game when you hit for the cycle (single, double, triple, home run). So you could lie and say you hit the home run over the fence when it was really an inside-the-park home run.

And everyone forgot that the pitcher was that one girl who played Little League instead of softball (not that it mattered or anything).


You had to actually talk to your friends

You had to call them on the telephone, and your whole family listened to your conversation and made comments. And even though there was dead air that lasted for two minutes sometimes, it was better than texting.

You could listen to your friend’s parents arguing in the background, so it wasn’t like the fake happy photos everyone posts on Facebook now.


Or go visit them

And if it was a really good argument, you could get on your bike and get over there to watch through the window.


© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune

Sunday, July 26, 2020

I Still Don't Believe in the Ghost I Saw

I Still Don't Believe in the Ghost I Saw

Cue the Righteous Brothers' "Unchained Melody"


My wife and I were sitting in bed watching T. V. and looking at our phones. A woman ghost in a torn wedding dress floated into the room through the bedroom door, hovered for a second, and then disappeared up through the ceiling.

I waited a few seconds.

I tried to think of an explanation.

It was condensation from the air conditioning. No. The air conditioning is not on. Something came out of the fire detection thingy on the ceiling. No. One of the kids is vaping, and I just busted him. No.

The ghost looked like one of the ghosts in the movie "Poltergeist." It stretched out, and its mouth opened wide and grotesque as it went up into the ceiling. It also reminded me of the ones that float around the dining room in the Haunted House at Disneyland. It was definitely a woman, and she was wearing a wedding dress, or some sort of outfit from olden times, like the 1920s or earlier.

Finally, I just had to give in.

"Did you just see that?" I asked my wife.

"Oh my god! I wasn't going to say anything, because I know you don't believe in ghosts!" she said.

"Do not say anything to the kids. We're not moving, and I don't want them scared about anything," I implored her.

"I always told you there were ghosts! And that I can predict the future, and I'm always right!" my wife said with way too much delight.

"Oh god, here we go," I thought. "I'm screwed."

 . . .

"Son #2 saw the ghost last night, didn't you?" says my wife, as we're in the car.

"Yep. He was downstairs and he came up behind me. Then he whispered my name," said Son #2.

"There are no ghosts in the house," I say.

"Yes there are! You saw it yourself!" says my wife.

"The thing I saw, was a woman if it was anything," I said.

"See, there's ghosts," my wife said.

. . .

I woke up. I came down the stairs, following the smell of coffee. My wife and her brother who was staying with us for a few days were sitting at the kitchen counter.

"Tell him! Tell him right now!" said my wife, throwing up her hands, then crossing her arms smugly.

"You guys have a ghost in your guest room," said the brother.

I just stared at him pissed off.

"It tried to have its way with me last night."

"Dude, you drank a sixer of Coors Lite last night," I reminded the brother.

"Nope, nope. This was hours later. It woke me up, and held me down."

"Well, according to the "Long Island Medium" here, and Son #2, the ghost is a MAN!" I said. "So I hope He WAS GENTLE!"

© Copyright Jack Clune 2020

Thursday, July 23, 2020

3 Things My Wife and I Do That Drives the Other Insane

3 Things My Wife and I Do That Drives the Other Insane

Pantomimes, doggy bowls, and tile plagiarism


I'll be the first to admit it. I do a thousand things that drive my wife nuts. I should probably be put in an insane asylum for some of my daily failures of basic human hygiene and dignity.

That's not what this article is about, though. This article is more light and airy, and about the more idiosyncratic things that she and I do, that drive each other insane.

My wife and I have known each other for over twenty years now, and we've been married for nearly fifteen. Let's just get down to it, shall we?

Things I Do

1. Asking for the bill at a restaurant

When I need to get the waiter's attention to get the bill, I use my beloved grandfather's time-honored method:

I wave my hand until I make eye-contact with the waiter, then I use my one hand like I'm writing with a pen, and I hold the other hand flat like it's the bill I'm signing.

When I did this on our first date, I looked over at my wife and her eyes were bulging out of her head.

"Did you just seriously act like you were signing the bill to the waiter?" my future wife asked.

"Yeah, that's how you do it. My Grandad showed me that." I said.

"I'm not sure I can go on another date with you," she said.

2. Mansplaining songs

Every time a song like Lou Reed's "Walk on The Wild Side," comes on the radio, I feel it is my duty to mansplain the background of the song. I pretend like I'm explaining it to my kids, but I'm really mansplaining it to my wife for the ten-thousandth time.

"Walk on the Wild Side"

"You know, David Bowie wrote this song . . ." I say authoritatively.

"Me and Bobby McGee"

"You know Kris Kristofferson wrote this song. He was a Rhoades scholar . . "

"Take it Easy"

"You know, Jackson Browne wrote this song . . ."

Each time, my observation is met with a resounding "We know! For the ten-thousandth time, we know!"

3. Buying gear

I buy gear like I'm trying to forget growing up during the Great Depression. I admit I take the "having-the-right-tool-for-every-situation" thing way too far.

When the Amazon box arrives at the door, here is what usually happens.

"What the hell is it today?" asks my wife, bringing the box into the man cave.

"Oh, this wasn't even a fun purchase. This is just something I really need for our ski trip," I say cutting open the box with secret delight.

"A shovel?" What the hell do you need that for?"

"It's not just a shovel. It's a backcountry avalanche rescue shovel. See, it fits inside the backpack I got yesterday," I say, demonstrating.

"We're going to Big Bear Resort for one day, you buffoon!"

Things She Does

1. Dishwashing

I finish my IPA beer, and I take the last gulp with a flourish, then belch loudly and contentedly.

Next, I lovingly and painstakingly wash my special $12 beer glass that I bought at the brewery. I use the brush that we keep in the plastic basket in the sink. The glass is too fragile to put in the dishwasher.

My wife comes in the kitchen with the dogs' bowls. She grabs the brush and starts swirling it around the bowls filled with remnants of wet and dry dog food. She makes sure to catch every scrap of food, scrubbing deep to get the sticky parts.

"Are you kidding me?" I say with my jaw hanging and feeling faint.

"What?!" she says.

"You clean the dog bowls with the same brush as us?" I say incredulously.

"Oh gimme a break, their mouths are twice as clean as yours!"

2. Sleeping with the window open to "get a little air"

I climb into bed, timing it almost perfectly to when the "Real Housewives" is ending.

"Can you open the window, and let some air in?" my wife asks.

She's reached a stage in life where, let's just say, she likes the bedroom to be . . . cold.

The "window" is actually the full-sized door out to the patio. The door/window is on my side of the bed.

"Um, it's raining outside. Actually, it's storming," I say meekly.

"It's too hot in here. Open the window please," she says.

Fast forward twenty minutes later. The rain is splashing on my face, like Gilligan and the Skipper.

"Can we switch sides?" I ask meekly.

3. "They used 'My Same Tile' in [the bathroom, the courtyard, the entryway]"

My wife is very talented at envisioning, designing, and lording over the workers to bring her interior designs to fruition. She is proud of her design choices, but sometimes, it gets a little out of hand.

"Come up here," says the text on my phone. I am in the man cave.

"As soon as the [World Series Game 7, UFC Fight, Basketball Playoff Game] is over," I text back.

"Whatever. Rude!" she responds.

When the game is over, I go upstairs to the bedroom. My wife turns on the DVR, puts on a "House Renovation Show- Chicago Edition", and fast forwards to a two-second clip.

"See that?!" my wife says.

"What? What am I looking for here?" I ask.

"See what tile she's using there?!" my wife asks, looking at me expectantly.

"Yeah?" I say. Confused.

"That's 'My Same Tile!' She's using my tile. The same one I used in the bathroom!"

"Oh. Wow!" I say, still kind of confused.

"She's using 'My Same Tile!'" my wife shouts again.

Two weeks later. Another Renovation show in a different city.

I'm dead asleep, with the wind and rain splashing my face. Suddenly there's a violent nudging at my back.

"Wake up! Wake up!" my wife says.

"What's wrong?! What's happening?!" I say, terrified and reaching for my tactical flashlight.

"Look it's 'My Same Tile' again!"

© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune 

Tuesday, July 14, 2020

I'm Looking Forward to Home Schooling My Kids During the Pandemic

I'm Looking Forward to Home Schooling My Kids During the Pandemic

Boy do they need it


If you were a fly on the wall at my house, you would not believe some of the ridiculous things my two sons say to me. I’m actually glad that over the next few weeks and months it looks like I will have the opportunity to Home School these two jokers.

Sports analysis

I came upon my sons eating their breakfast and watching an ESPN story on Tom Brady joining the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

“Tom Brady sucks,” I correctly told them.

“Dad, c’mon cut it out,” said Son 1.

“Dad, Tom Brady is still good,” said Son 2.

“Well, how old is he?” I asked

“He’s like, 42 now,” Son 1 said.

“Well, that’s it. He sucks. When you get old you suck,” I said.

“Dad, Tom Brady has like 6 Super Bowl rings, he doesn’t suck, okay?”

“He’s old. He sucks.”

Reading a Book

The other day I caught Son 1 lying on a couch, reading a book.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked him

“I’m reading a book, Dad.”

“What book?” I said, ripping it out of his hands. “To Kill a Mockingbird?!”

“Yeah, Dad. What’s wrong with that?” said Son 1.

“Hello?! They made a movie of that book. All you have to do is rent it on YouTube, and watch it on double speed- you’ll be done with it in like a half hour!” I told him.

“Dad, that’s not how I want to read the book.”

“Whatever, it’s your life, waste it how you want,” I said.

Planning a Career

“What do you wanna do when you grow up?” I asked Son 2 at dinner.

“I’m not sure yet, but I know I really want to help people,” he said.

“Oh great. Great answer. How ya gonna pay the bills- ‘helping people?’” I asked him.

“Well, I don’t know, what do you think I should do?”

“How the hell should I know? But you gotta make a lot of money. And you better have a lot of internet followers. And you gotta get ripped. I mean shredded, with a twelve-pack of abs.”

“Dad, what is wrong with you?” asked Son 2.

“I think you should go to Wall Street and be a hedge fund manager,” I said.

“What’s a hedge fund manager do?” Son 2 asked.

“They move rich people’s money around and make huge commissions,” I said.

“I don’t think I understand,” said Son 2.

“Well, then be a TikTok star or a blogger on Medium.”

© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune

Saturday, July 11, 2020

What We Need Now Is A Lot More Empathy

What We Need Now Is A Lot More Empathy

Entitled jerks and loudmouths take note


I'm telling you, this Pandemic is really pushing people to the brink of civilized behavior. Just this weekend, I saw people acting so boorishly, it made me want to weep for where we are headed as a society.

This story is a follow-up to an earlier story.

. . .

Grocery shopping- Vons, Chula Vista

On Friday, my family was out on a walk, when one of our Boxers stuck his snout into a bee that was on the ground, and he got stung on the nose. His whole face swelled up. Now, this has happened before, and we know to give the dog an antihistamine pill, and he feels better right away.

Luckily there was a Vons grocery store nearby, so I ran in to buy some peanut butter and some Benadryl pills. Well, the Express line was packed with about 20 people in it. They were buying 40 oz. beers, and People magazines, potato chips, and all sorts of crap.

So I ran down to another aisle that looked wide open. Right when I get to the aisle, this chubby guy in "Stone Brewing" T-shirt, rolls up, with his cart filled with like, 10,000 items. He can barely push the cart.

"Sir, can I cut in front here, I have a medical emergency going on," I ask the guy.

You should have seen the sour puss on this schlump.

"There's an Express line right over there, what's wrong with that line?" says the Prick.

"Sir, are you serious? It'll just be two seconds here, and I'll be right on my way" I plead with the guy.

Nope. The jerk made me wait behind him. It took even longer because he had to sign up for a Vons Member Card.

. . .

"The Henry" Restaurant- Coronado, California

This afternoon, Saturday, my family and I are enjoying a nice meal on the patio, socially distancing, and frequently cleaning our hands with hand sanitizer. At the high top table six feet away from us, a commotion breaks out.

"Why is it my problem that the keg is out!?" yells this bloated, red-faced guy, embarrassing his cute family stuck there sitting with him.

"Sir, I'm so sorry, it will just be a moment, they're working on it right now," says the poor waitress.

"I don't care if they're brewing a special batch just for me! I'm thirsty now! Bring me a free beer while I wait!" says the entitled bastard.

"Sir, I'll have to ask my manager . . ." says the waitress.

"Well . . . Chop, chop!" says the Prick. "And if the manager says no, tell 'em to come over and talk to me. I want to tell them about this idea I have for when the keg runs out."

. . . 

During these difficult times, I think people should take a good look at themselves in the mirror, and decide if they like what they see. What we all need now is a lot more empathy.

© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune

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