Eplaya Coffee and Chai
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regynalonglank
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tonytohono
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tonytohono
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regynalonglank
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tonytohono
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gigglesnort
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oh i see....(ahem) I mean padded tables are good, dem bushes were scratch'n me back side....tonytohono wrote:I thought the bushes were over by the bar darling. Over here we have padded tables...gigglesnort wrote:....pssst.....over here, in bushes.....tonytohono wrote:That is only going to wire me up more... now I need some way to expend this energy.
Any ideas? I've got tons of it =)
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gigglesnort
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tonytohono
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gigglesnort
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tonytohono
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gigglesnort
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[rosy cheeked and bright eyed] Morning! A large chai with nonfat milk.....
Went running in the woods this morning after I dropped off the girls at the Montessori. There is a little state park just on the edge of Little Rock I like to go to with a hilly little ridge line; one point bumps up to a thousand feet or so. Around here they call it Pinnacle Mountain..... Ah ha ha ha! [slaps knee, wipes away tear]. I play along tho; hate to burst their bubble. Arkansawyers tend to have a bit of an inferiority complex, and most of em own shotguns.
Damn, said I wasn't comin around here today.....
[Dashes out door]
Went running in the woods this morning after I dropped off the girls at the Montessori. There is a little state park just on the edge of Little Rock I like to go to with a hilly little ridge line; one point bumps up to a thousand feet or so. Around here they call it Pinnacle Mountain..... Ah ha ha ha! [slaps knee, wipes away tear]. I play along tho; hate to burst their bubble. Arkansawyers tend to have a bit of an inferiority complex, and most of em own shotguns.
Damn, said I wasn't comin around here today.....
[Dashes out door]
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tonytohono
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Story: Cold (it's fiction, I swear)
Good morning everyone. Today special is more of that super thick espresso. And this ought to start things with a smirk... All right... something with a little less feeling.
COLD
I’d never seen a car with a plastic seat before. It was shiny, black plastic with rounded edges; one piece from floor to rear window. I could have been getting into a ride at Disneyland, but this was no amusement park. In the event someone puked, I knew it would be easy to hose off, but I suspected an even more important asset to its design, was that unlike a standard car seat, it lacked places to hide things. I wasn’t holding so I wasn’t worried. The officer pushed my head down and forced me into the car. I thought of how angry it made my ex-girlfriend the first—and last—time I pressed down on her head while we were having sex. I had learned the hard way, and now this karmic twist.
The seat was ice cold against my bare skin. I pretended not to notice while I waited for the surface to absorb my body heat. The wetness wasn’t helping at all. After my quick shower I didn’t have time to properly dry myself before I opened the front door. Moments later I was face down on the floor wearing stainless steel bracelets.
I had first realized there was a problem when someone began pounding on my door some twenty minutes earlier. When I put my eye to the peephole I saw a police officer inspecting my door. On the periphery I watched shapes creeping through the shadows, and I assumed he was not alone. I snuck over to my phone, and called the person who had visited an hour before. Considering he lived only two blocks away I knew he should be home by now. As the line continued to ring I distinctly recalled him saying, “I’m going home,” as I locked the door behind him. I recounted his purchase…
The pounding resumed, interrupting my analysis. This second round was more incessant. Another peek and I saw the first officer was joined by a second uniformed officer. In the shadows I again noticed movement and the way the officers periodically glanced that direction only confirmed my previous suspicions.
A few minutes later when they began attempts to break down my door I knew it was trouble. Fortunately, I had installed the steel door the month before. The 17 lag bolts holding the steel jamb securely to the doorframe would require more than two stiff shoulders to break down. I expected a battering ram to appear shortly. I was confounded when the tow truck arrived. I wondered how they planned to use a tow truck to break down my door. But I soon learned that was not their intention. It was for my Harley Davidson, which was parked on the sidewalk. This alarmed me. In fact, I was more concerned with my bike being towed than I was with their gaining entry. At this point I implemented plan B. I went to the rear of the house, dug out my stash beneath the liner in the cat box and took it to the sink. I only hesitated a moment before blasting it. I counted; it took over 8 seconds to clear 4 ounces under the tap on full blast. I went back to the peephole to check on the officers’ progress. They were engaged with the tow truck driver, trying to figure out how to break the snake-chain which secured my motorcycle to the sign pole—the one that said no parking Tuesday 7:00 to 10:00.
I knew I had a few minutes so I decided to give myself an excuse for not opening up sooner. A shower would do. I hurried to the bathroom, stripped off my clothes—I wasn’t wearing underwear—got in the shower and turned the spigot. Once I was suitably wet, I got out. No towel handy, so I pulled my jeans on over my wet legs and hurried out front to see what all I’d missed.
I was shocked to see my bike already on the truck. I slammed back the bolt and whipped opened the door. “Hey, that’s my bike!” I shouted. “What the hell is going on?”
“Why didn’t you answer?” the officer asked.
I feigned surprise. “I didn’t know you were out here.” Water dripped from the ends of my long wavy hair and raced over my bare chest. “I was in the shower.”
He wasn’t buying, but what could he say? After a brief stare-off the officer explained that my motorcycle had been illegally blocking the sidewalk and if I presented my ID they would be happy to lower it off the truck. I went for my wallet and as I held out my license a handcuff was snapped on my wrist. Just like that I was face down on the concrete at the foot of my step as a stream of police officers in plainclothes appeared from the shadows and poured into my house.
Moments later my head was going down and I was wishing the plastic seat would warm up quicker than it was. The door crashed closed and through the window I watched the officer follow his compadres into my house. One came out, another went in and soon I was bored with trying to guess if they were coming or going. I rested my chin on my chest and tried to generate some heat. I watched as my Harley was hauled away. Fucking pigs—at least they could give me a shirt.
Minutes passed.
Just as the seat was warming up the door reopened and the streetlight was eclipsed. “All right tough guy—it’s show time.” And I was yanked from the car like I was a flyweight, which I am not, but this new cop was a goddamn monster.
Inside the house a swarm of cops looked up from various locations. “Hey, you missed a spot,” I sneered, “sure you don’t wanna dump something over here too.” In less than 15 minutes they had completely trashed my house.
“Shut your mouth punk,” the monster’s darker haired twin said. He was wearing a faded-red football jersey with a big number 16. “You wanna save us some time, tell us where the stash is and we can all go home. Well, except for you that is, you’re going to jail.” Cop-laughter echoed throughout the house.
I shook my head. “There is no stash.”
“And I’m Joe Montana.” Right in my face he yells, “You’re lying punk.”
“Suit yourself, but if anyone’s curious they can look in the garbage bag back there in the kitchen. You’ll find a large Ziploc freezer bag, and you’ll see it’s all wet from where I rinsed it out right before I opened the door.”
“You’re full of shit. No tweeker ever dumps his stash.”
“You may be right. Thing is, I’m not a tweeker.”
The cop stared into my eyes point blank, wondering at one-hundred miles per hour, but pretending he had no doubt I was lying. I was thinking he could seriously use some Altoids, because his breath was curiously strong, probably strong enough to peel back wallpaper. He looked over at one of the other cops; a youngster who was down on his knees browsing through a stack of videotapes, probably disappointed they weren’t porn. The cop before me gestured with his head toward the kitchen, as if casting him through the gates of hell. The youngster got up and played fetch.
Through the doorway I watched him dig in my plastic garbage can until he was up to his elbows in bacon grease and soup cans. “Nothing here Lou,” he called as he tried to scrape something off of his wrist.
Big number 16 locked onto my eyes with pure scorn. “The garbage bag, not the garbage can,” I said, emphasizing it with a shrug of my shoulders.
The youngster pivoted. In the corner a black plastic bag lay flaccid on the floor. He quickly snatched it up, found the opening and reached inside, removing said Ziploc bag. Water dripped on his shirt as he revealed his prize.
I’m sure every cop in the place wanted to laugh, but not a single one did. They were probably too busy dreaming up plans to kick my smart ass straight into tomorrow. “So you expect us to believe that’s your stash?” the Big number 16 asked.
“I don’t expect you to believe anything.” Again, I shrugged. “Anyway it’s empty now. Like I said, the stash went down the drain. You won’t find anything else… unless you brought some of your own.”
The cop stared into my eyes with such hatred I thought he was going to bitch slap me any second. “He’s lying boys—keep looking.” As he turned away from me he said to one of the uniforms, “Get him the fuck out of here before I break his arms.”
I arrived at the back seat just as the last of my body heat had dissipated from the plastic. As the uniform climbed into the driver’s seat Big number 16 came up on the passenger side and opened the door. “Last chance punk—where’s the shit?” I tossed off an incredulous sigh. To the driver he instructed, “Take him to the station. Make him uncomfortable, maybe he’ll change his mind.” And then he slammed the door.
At the station I was pushed into the drunk tank. The room was a concrete box without windows. A steel bench lined one wall and the entire floor sloped down toward a single drain in the corner. A short garden hose was connected to a faucet and rolled up on the holder beside it. The cop removed the cuffs and told me to strip. I complied and handed him my jeans. After he turned the pockets inside out and pinched the seams, he tossed them aside and told me to face him. “Lean forward and run your fingers through your hair. Stand up straight now. Stick out your tongue and wiggle it. Good. Grab your balls and lift ‘em. Okay, now turn around. Bend over, grab your cheeks and cough. Cough harder. Okay, now stand up and grab some wall.”
After he re-cuffed me he led me over to the steel bench and had me crouch before it. It was awkward, but he lifted my arms and forced them over the bench, and with another pair of cuffs, cuffed my hands to the post that bolted the middle of the bench to the floor. He then kicked my legs out before me. My naked ass barely touched the cold concrete and the grating on the bench cut into my biceps. It was uncomfortable and I knew it was only going to get worse. “Couldn’t be much worse, could it?” he asked. At first I thought it was rhetorical so I didn’t comment, but a moment later when he rolled in an electric fan that resembled and airplane engine I realized I was wrong. “This ought to cool you out—tough guy.” He directed it toward me, and then flipped the switch.
Even the drunks they brought in throughout the night looked at me like I was disparaging. And by morning I knew that I was.
COLD
I’d never seen a car with a plastic seat before. It was shiny, black plastic with rounded edges; one piece from floor to rear window. I could have been getting into a ride at Disneyland, but this was no amusement park. In the event someone puked, I knew it would be easy to hose off, but I suspected an even more important asset to its design, was that unlike a standard car seat, it lacked places to hide things. I wasn’t holding so I wasn’t worried. The officer pushed my head down and forced me into the car. I thought of how angry it made my ex-girlfriend the first—and last—time I pressed down on her head while we were having sex. I had learned the hard way, and now this karmic twist.
The seat was ice cold against my bare skin. I pretended not to notice while I waited for the surface to absorb my body heat. The wetness wasn’t helping at all. After my quick shower I didn’t have time to properly dry myself before I opened the front door. Moments later I was face down on the floor wearing stainless steel bracelets.
I had first realized there was a problem when someone began pounding on my door some twenty minutes earlier. When I put my eye to the peephole I saw a police officer inspecting my door. On the periphery I watched shapes creeping through the shadows, and I assumed he was not alone. I snuck over to my phone, and called the person who had visited an hour before. Considering he lived only two blocks away I knew he should be home by now. As the line continued to ring I distinctly recalled him saying, “I’m going home,” as I locked the door behind him. I recounted his purchase…
The pounding resumed, interrupting my analysis. This second round was more incessant. Another peek and I saw the first officer was joined by a second uniformed officer. In the shadows I again noticed movement and the way the officers periodically glanced that direction only confirmed my previous suspicions.
A few minutes later when they began attempts to break down my door I knew it was trouble. Fortunately, I had installed the steel door the month before. The 17 lag bolts holding the steel jamb securely to the doorframe would require more than two stiff shoulders to break down. I expected a battering ram to appear shortly. I was confounded when the tow truck arrived. I wondered how they planned to use a tow truck to break down my door. But I soon learned that was not their intention. It was for my Harley Davidson, which was parked on the sidewalk. This alarmed me. In fact, I was more concerned with my bike being towed than I was with their gaining entry. At this point I implemented plan B. I went to the rear of the house, dug out my stash beneath the liner in the cat box and took it to the sink. I only hesitated a moment before blasting it. I counted; it took over 8 seconds to clear 4 ounces under the tap on full blast. I went back to the peephole to check on the officers’ progress. They were engaged with the tow truck driver, trying to figure out how to break the snake-chain which secured my motorcycle to the sign pole—the one that said no parking Tuesday 7:00 to 10:00.
I knew I had a few minutes so I decided to give myself an excuse for not opening up sooner. A shower would do. I hurried to the bathroom, stripped off my clothes—I wasn’t wearing underwear—got in the shower and turned the spigot. Once I was suitably wet, I got out. No towel handy, so I pulled my jeans on over my wet legs and hurried out front to see what all I’d missed.
I was shocked to see my bike already on the truck. I slammed back the bolt and whipped opened the door. “Hey, that’s my bike!” I shouted. “What the hell is going on?”
“Why didn’t you answer?” the officer asked.
I feigned surprise. “I didn’t know you were out here.” Water dripped from the ends of my long wavy hair and raced over my bare chest. “I was in the shower.”
He wasn’t buying, but what could he say? After a brief stare-off the officer explained that my motorcycle had been illegally blocking the sidewalk and if I presented my ID they would be happy to lower it off the truck. I went for my wallet and as I held out my license a handcuff was snapped on my wrist. Just like that I was face down on the concrete at the foot of my step as a stream of police officers in plainclothes appeared from the shadows and poured into my house.
Moments later my head was going down and I was wishing the plastic seat would warm up quicker than it was. The door crashed closed and through the window I watched the officer follow his compadres into my house. One came out, another went in and soon I was bored with trying to guess if they were coming or going. I rested my chin on my chest and tried to generate some heat. I watched as my Harley was hauled away. Fucking pigs—at least they could give me a shirt.
Minutes passed.
Just as the seat was warming up the door reopened and the streetlight was eclipsed. “All right tough guy—it’s show time.” And I was yanked from the car like I was a flyweight, which I am not, but this new cop was a goddamn monster.
Inside the house a swarm of cops looked up from various locations. “Hey, you missed a spot,” I sneered, “sure you don’t wanna dump something over here too.” In less than 15 minutes they had completely trashed my house.
“Shut your mouth punk,” the monster’s darker haired twin said. He was wearing a faded-red football jersey with a big number 16. “You wanna save us some time, tell us where the stash is and we can all go home. Well, except for you that is, you’re going to jail.” Cop-laughter echoed throughout the house.
I shook my head. “There is no stash.”
“And I’m Joe Montana.” Right in my face he yells, “You’re lying punk.”
“Suit yourself, but if anyone’s curious they can look in the garbage bag back there in the kitchen. You’ll find a large Ziploc freezer bag, and you’ll see it’s all wet from where I rinsed it out right before I opened the door.”
“You’re full of shit. No tweeker ever dumps his stash.”
“You may be right. Thing is, I’m not a tweeker.”
The cop stared into my eyes point blank, wondering at one-hundred miles per hour, but pretending he had no doubt I was lying. I was thinking he could seriously use some Altoids, because his breath was curiously strong, probably strong enough to peel back wallpaper. He looked over at one of the other cops; a youngster who was down on his knees browsing through a stack of videotapes, probably disappointed they weren’t porn. The cop before me gestured with his head toward the kitchen, as if casting him through the gates of hell. The youngster got up and played fetch.
Through the doorway I watched him dig in my plastic garbage can until he was up to his elbows in bacon grease and soup cans. “Nothing here Lou,” he called as he tried to scrape something off of his wrist.
Big number 16 locked onto my eyes with pure scorn. “The garbage bag, not the garbage can,” I said, emphasizing it with a shrug of my shoulders.
The youngster pivoted. In the corner a black plastic bag lay flaccid on the floor. He quickly snatched it up, found the opening and reached inside, removing said Ziploc bag. Water dripped on his shirt as he revealed his prize.
I’m sure every cop in the place wanted to laugh, but not a single one did. They were probably too busy dreaming up plans to kick my smart ass straight into tomorrow. “So you expect us to believe that’s your stash?” the Big number 16 asked.
“I don’t expect you to believe anything.” Again, I shrugged. “Anyway it’s empty now. Like I said, the stash went down the drain. You won’t find anything else… unless you brought some of your own.”
The cop stared into my eyes with such hatred I thought he was going to bitch slap me any second. “He’s lying boys—keep looking.” As he turned away from me he said to one of the uniforms, “Get him the fuck out of here before I break his arms.”
I arrived at the back seat just as the last of my body heat had dissipated from the plastic. As the uniform climbed into the driver’s seat Big number 16 came up on the passenger side and opened the door. “Last chance punk—where’s the shit?” I tossed off an incredulous sigh. To the driver he instructed, “Take him to the station. Make him uncomfortable, maybe he’ll change his mind.” And then he slammed the door.
At the station I was pushed into the drunk tank. The room was a concrete box without windows. A steel bench lined one wall and the entire floor sloped down toward a single drain in the corner. A short garden hose was connected to a faucet and rolled up on the holder beside it. The cop removed the cuffs and told me to strip. I complied and handed him my jeans. After he turned the pockets inside out and pinched the seams, he tossed them aside and told me to face him. “Lean forward and run your fingers through your hair. Stand up straight now. Stick out your tongue and wiggle it. Good. Grab your balls and lift ‘em. Okay, now turn around. Bend over, grab your cheeks and cough. Cough harder. Okay, now stand up and grab some wall.”
After he re-cuffed me he led me over to the steel bench and had me crouch before it. It was awkward, but he lifted my arms and forced them over the bench, and with another pair of cuffs, cuffed my hands to the post that bolted the middle of the bench to the floor. He then kicked my legs out before me. My naked ass barely touched the cold concrete and the grating on the bench cut into my biceps. It was uncomfortable and I knew it was only going to get worse. “Couldn’t be much worse, could it?” he asked. At first I thought it was rhetorical so I didn’t comment, but a moment later when he rolled in an electric fan that resembled and airplane engine I realized I was wrong. “This ought to cool you out—tough guy.” He directed it toward me, and then flipped the switch.
Even the drunks they brought in throughout the night looked at me like I was disparaging. And by morning I knew that I was.
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regynalonglank
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gigglesnort
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regynalonglank
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gigglesnort
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Re: Story: Cold (it's fiction, I swear)
Hey Tonto, some girls like this sort of thing :wink:tonytohono wrote:I thought of how angry it made my ex-girlfriend the first—and last—time I pressed down on her head while we were having sex.
Didn't get any further, not supposed to be here ya know (don't tell my boss, K?) But I *promise* I'll get to it later..... for now I'm knee-deep in:
[sample report]
HOSPITAL PROCEDURES:
Include:
1. A chest computed tomography showing no deep vein thrombosis. Bilateral pleural effusions. Negative for pulmonary embolism.
2. Chest x-ray; borderline heart size with hyperinflation.
3. Transthoracic two-dimensional echocardiogram showing left ventricular function to be diminished. Moderate mitral regurgitation. Aortic valve is not significantly calcified. Left ventricular ejection fraction 20 to 25 percent. Right-sided pressure slightly elevated at 27 millimeters of mercury. Aortic regurgitation.
4. Computed tomography of the abdomen and pelvis showing bilateral pleural effusions, a left buttock hematoma at least 8 x 10.
Please see separate dictation for further detail on those procedures.
[/sample report]
Sorry about that, misery loves company. Bye!
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theCryptofishist
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Opening up an Ice Cream Parlor?helitack wrote:Yes you most certainly do! I wouldn't forget that you know. I have an open Ben and Jerry's Pistachio Pistachio, care to share?
The Lady with a Lamprey
"The powerful are exploiting people, art and ideas, and this leads to us plebes debating how to best ration ice.
Man, no wonder they always win....." Lonesomebri
"The powerful are exploiting people, art and ideas, and this leads to us plebes debating how to best ration ice.
Man, no wonder they always win....." Lonesomebri
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regynalonglank
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tonytohono
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I am a busy man today. Although I would love to reply, and get all witty 'n shit...
Alas it will have to wait. =|
More later. I promise.
Suffice to say, I am aware of that Giggle. But sometimes it just doesn't work out that way. =[
Notice she was referred to as an ex...
But as I swore... pure fiction.
Alas it will have to wait. =|
More later. I promise.
Suffice to say, I am aware of that Giggle. But sometimes it just doesn't work out that way. =[
Notice she was referred to as an ex...
But as I swore... pure fiction.
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Kristy Kreme
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gigglesnort
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Can't speak for Miss Long Lanks, but personally I like Pistachio; Ben&Jerry's makes a mean batch. Can I interest you in a coffee drink, or perhaps a chai latte, Miss Kreme?Kristy Kreme wrote:What's your favorite flavor?regynalonglank wrote:mmmm...ice cream. now that sounds like a nice breakfast!
Kisses, Kristy Kreme
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cowboyangel
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hey you, ya you......gigglesnort.....get you're ass into the 12 step meeting room right now!gigglesnort wrote:Can't speak for Miss Long Lanks, but personally I like Pistachio; Ben&Jerry's makes a mean batch. Can I interest you in a coffee drink, or perhaps a chai latte, Miss Kreme?Kristy Kreme wrote:What's your favorite flavor?regynalonglank wrote:mmmm...ice cream. now that sounds like a nice breakfast!
Kisses, Kristy Kreme
"We'll know our disinformation program is complete when everything the American public believe is false."- William Casey, CIA Director 1981
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gigglesnort
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cowboyangel wrote:hey you, ya you......gigglesnort.....get you're ass into the 12 step meeting room right now!gigglesnort wrote:Can't speak for Miss Long Lanks, but personally I like Pistachio; Ben&Jerry's makes a mean batch. Can I interest you in a coffee drink, or perhaps a chai latte, Miss Kreme?Kristy Kreme wrote: What's your favorite flavor?
Kisses, Kristy Kreme
Oooops! Leave me alone, I've got work to do, don't have time for a meeting, maybe next time.......um, gotta go.
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cowboyangel
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Kristy Kreme
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No coffee (I don't do stimulents) but a nice cup of spiced chai soulds lovely, Thank you !gigglesnort wrote:Can't speak for Miss Long Lanks, but personally I like Pistachio; Ben&Jerry's makes a mean batch. Can I interest you in a coffee drink, or perhaps a chai latte, Miss Kreme?Kristy Kreme wrote:What's your favorite flavor?regynalonglank wrote:mmmm...ice cream. now that sounds like a nice breakfast!
Kisses, Kristy Kreme
I love pistachio, butter pecan and oreo cookie.
Kisses, Kristy kreme
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gigglesnort
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[furtively, looking over shoulder]Beg to differ, Miss Kreme, but it seems to me you are all about the stimulants.....[running out door before the 12 step nazi reappears]Kristy Kreme wrote:No coffee (I don't do stimulents) but a nice cup of spiced chai soulds lovely, Thank you !gigglesnort wrote:Can't speak for Miss Long Lanks, but personally I like Pistachio; Ben&Jerry's makes a mean batch. Can I interest you in a coffee drink, or perhaps a chai latte, Miss Kreme?Kristy Kreme wrote: What's your favorite flavor?
Kisses, Kristy Kreme
I love pistachio, butter pecan and oreo cookie.
Kisses, Kristy kreme
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cowboyangel
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Kristy Kreme
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regynalonglank
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i like mint chocolate chip a lot...cherry garcia is also very good. swiss almond whatever it is is awesome...it kind of depends. am i eating the whole thing alone? cuz i can't even begin to make it through super chunk that way. must share. i really like mint chocolate chip milk shakes because the chips get stuck in the straw, and then you kind of get the agustus gloob effect...whoooosh!
\v/
/ \
just listen to the drum
/ \
just listen to the drum
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Kristy Kreme
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I'm out on any mint but I'll share the rest with you. I'm weak when it comes to chocolate, cherries or nuts.regynalonglank wrote:i like mint chocolate chip a lot...cherry garcia is also very good. swiss almond whatever it is is awesome...it kind of depends. am i eating the whole thing alone? cuz i can't even begin to make it through super chunk that way. must share. i really like mint chocolate chip milk shakes because the chips get stuck in the straw, and then you kind of get the agustus gloob effect...whoooosh!
Kisses, Kristy Kreme