This week I served two smelly, foul-mouthed truck drivers who were no doubt on their way back to deliver squirrel meat to a colony of spelunking-cave dwellers in Appalachian outlaw territory.
Darl and Vardaman sat themselves at a dirty table. As I approached and tried to wipe it off, Darl farted and then said, "You can save that rag, we don't give a shit about a few crumbs."
"Where's the pussy?" Vardaman asked. "We want a girl to wait on us."
"Sorry," I said. "The owners are super gay and only hire male servers."
They both shuddered and ordered their Mexican cheeseburgers, iced teas and extra chips and salsa.
In between dispelling gas and swapping stripper stories, Darl and Vardaman asked me for an iced tea refill every 30 seconds. I'd brink over the pitcher, and they'd drink the entire contents of the glass, then proudly ask for another refill.
Finally I set down a full iced tea pitcher so I wouldn't have to approach them and be subjected to their various emissions.
They left after paying with cash (and a 43 cent tip).
I was carrying the empty iced tea pitcher back to the kitchen before I noticed something. At the bottom of the pitcher was a smelly, foul, black mushy substance.
The boys had used it to spit out their chewing tobacco.
I wish so many horrible things upon both of them; That someday, someone gouges out their eyes and forces them to sniff their way around this earth; That a bear mauls and eats both of them slowly and painfully; That they both share the same hooker only to discover that the hooker is really a murderous tranny with crabs; That they both wind up in prison and that some gay bubba truly gives them a reason to shudder.
Now if you'll excuse me, I am off to drink vodka in the shower and rinse away the memory of Darl and Vardaman as best I can.