I like Dunkin Donuts.
The .0000001 percent of me that's liberal says I should get my morning coffee at Starbucks. They give bennies to part-timers, they donate to social causes, etc, etc. Yet every morning I find myself at Dunkin Donuts, angrily explaining to the pregnant teen pouring my coffee that when I say "black coffee", it means that there's no fucking cream and sugar in it, bitch, and that's the only tip your getting from me this morning.
Brand loyalty can be a bad thing. The only reason I go to Dunkin Donuts at all is because when I was a sprog (long before the mental damage became apparent, and shortly before I discovered the joy of killing insects) my dad would take me, on Saturday mornings, to the Dunkin Donuts on Winter Street in Haverhill Massachusetts, where I grew up. I'd sit on a stool at the counter and have a lemon donut and a glass of orange juice. I'm sure dear old Dad cursed the rotten service then, too.
Of course, this was back when Haverhill had one Dunkin Donuts; now there's eight of 'em.
Now, another reason I don't frequent Starbucks is because I've always been somewhat uncomfortable walking into a Starbucks shop and I've never quite understood why until recently. It's not that I hate Starbucks Coffee; au contraire, any business that gives benefits to part-time employees is OK in my book, and the coffee ain't bad.
Nope, I don't hate the place and I don't hate the coffee. I hate the people at Starbucks.
I hate the smarmy workers with their holier-than-thou fucking attitude. Who gives a shit if you can describe in vast and unnecessary detail the differences between how coffee is grown in Sumatra versus Colombia? When I was in college I used to work in a Fotomat booth but that didn't automatically make me the equal of Karsh or Arbus. You're still just pouring coffee and dishing out overpriced pastry for the masses, you pierced Gen-X fuck. And no, don't leave any room for cream; I ordered it black. And no, I won't call it a "venti". It's a goddamn large black coffee.
And while I'm ranting about Starbucks employees here's a few words for the crack staff who work at the Starbucks I used to go to every day, the one on Washington Street in Boston. The long-haired manager should lose the fake British accent. He's not fooling anybody unless he speaks that way all the time. The little black kid should change his hairstyle unless he doesn't care that the customers call him 'Buckwheat' behind his back. And to the rough-looking girl with the homemade tattoos on her hands: I'd love to screw your brains out doggy-style, all night. Just don't speak, OK? It'd ruin the mood.
I also hate the Starbucks customers. It seems as if I always get stuck behind some idiot who orders a double-mocha lightly buttfucked low-fat latte and then beams as if he's just ordered a good Lafitte Rothschild. Fuck you, pal, it's only a cup of coffee.
"Don't put too much jizz in it, I don't like it when it's all frothy," I yelled onetime from the back of the line, and was promptly ejected from the Starbucks on Rt 114 in Danvers. Fuck'em if they can't take a joke.
Also, besides the members of the 'coffee elite' you've got all those damned faux artistic types hanging out, and they make me break out in hives.
Dear God, the whole Starbucks experience seems to consist of people pretending to be somebody and/or something other than what they are. It's a caffeinated Potemkin village!
Nope, gimme Dunkin Donuts anyday. The place is usually dirty, the coffee's not all that great, and the help stinks, but at least it's an honest experience.
Whew! Glad I got that off of my chest. And so, on with the story...
Now, last Sunday it wasn't brand loyalty that made me visit Dunkin Donuts. It wasn't that I wanted a cup of coffee, and I certainly didn't want a donut.
I can't figure out what drove me to visit Dunkin Donuts last Sunday, but I've got it narrowed down to either a listeria-laced hot dog, some bad macaroni salad, or that piece of mystery meat that I scarfed down even though it wasn't cooked all the way through. In any event, when the cookout was over I found myself speeding down Rt 133 from Manchester-by-the-Sea to Ipswich, on a Sunday evening, desperately holding my asshole shut while looking for a bathroom.
I clenched my sphincter muscles so tightly that I was afraid I'd get a cramp (imagine how painful that would be, huh?); the contents of my lower intestine had liquified roughly three seconds after I'd left the cookout, and I was facing a 40 minute ride home.
Every thirty seconds another spasm would ripple through my guts and I'd be two seconds away from filling my shorts. I would've done it, too, if it hadn't been for the fact that I'd just put new seatcovers in the Carrot-mobile the previous day.
Each restaurant I passed was closed. There were no gas stations. I thought about pulling over to the side of the road and dropping my grogans off, but the entire area is infested with greenhead flies, evil insects that feast on flesh and leave an incredible welt; imagine a horsefly with rabies and sharp, sharp teeth. They come out of the salt marshes in this area during a few weeks in July and August. I didn't relish the thought of fending them off while I squatted in the bushes, hoping a local cop wouldn't come by and spot me. Anyone who lives on the North Shore of Massachusetts is familiar with greenhead flies and will understand why I'd rather shit my pants and ruin my K-Mart seatcovers rather than be bitten on my exposed (and quite lovely) asscheeks.
Finally, I reached the Dunkin Donuts in Ipswich. My colon screamed "Yes! YES!". I parked the car and quickly dashed inside. The liquid sloshing in my guts told me that I'd made it just in time.
When I got inside I quickly strode to the men's room. The kids behind the counter, a boy and a zit-laden girl, were trying not to snicker. I closed the door, sat down, and a high velocity stream of shitwater squirted out of my ass and into the toilet. Not a single solid chunk of shit came out, just fluid. Phssht! Phssht! Ah, relief, now I can wipe up and...uh oh...phssht! I shifted position to the left and was instantly attacked by another gut cramp. Phssht! I squirted more into the toilet. Each squirt of liquishit hit the water with such force that the now-befouled water in the bowl splashed everywhere.
This went on for close to five minutes. Each time I thought the worst was over another round of liquishit would make its appearance. The odor was exquisite, a mix of rotten eggs, meat and pungent onion-smelling farts that mixed with the stench of the already-dirty bathroom.
Normally, I would regard all this as a Good Thing, a blessing from Glub upon the tasteless, but...
The way the store is laid out the door to the men's room is fairly close to the counter. Additionally, there's a gap between the door and the floor. Because of this, the door provides only an illusion of privacy, especially if you're in the middle of a noisy intestinal episode.
During each pause in the evening's anal festivities I could hear the kids at the counter laughing at me as I shat my guts out.
"Man, that's gross," the girl said after I'd released an especially loud burst of gas, and they both laughed.
"What a fucking pig," the guy said, and they both laughed again.
Little fucking bastards, I thought to myself, I hope you rot your entire lives away serving coffee to strangers, I hope you...oh shit, here it comes again...phsst!!! Another stream of liquishit blew out of my ass and into the toilet.
"Hahah!" I heard. Then I heard different voices as some of their friends walked through the door.
"Dude, I'm gonna use the can, OK?"
"No, it's not OK," the kid behind the counter said, "there's some guy in there right now shitting his brains out."
More laughter. Little bastards! I hope they get strep the next time they get something pierced!
My bowels had settled down at this point. My ass as burning, more from friction than any spicy food I'd eaten. I gingerly wiped, stood up and zipped up. The wipe was not effective because there was too much debris; I would need to shower when I got home.
I flushed the toilet.
The toilet didn't flush.
I tried again; still no luck. Not even a little trickle of water. The toilet looked like someone had poured a bucket of mud into and over it; there were little flecks of shit on the seat. Wads of toilet paper floated on the surface and the rear of the bowl was covered by a splash of shit. I've seen porta johns in better condition after a Pakistani rock concert. I tried to flush one more time, and then I heard the kids laughing outside of the door.
"Man, he must have asshole cancer or something, huh?" More laughter followed.
I washed my hands, snapped a spiffy salute at the shit-filled toilet, and strolled out of the mens' room. In addition to the two kids behind the counter there were about five more lounging around, a mix of boys and girls.
"Everything come out all right?" some wag called. Another kid laughed.
"Just fine," I said, and then turned to the kids behind the counter.
"Hey, listen, I guess I should let you know, the toilet's busted. It won't flush and it's full of shit. Have fun cleaning it up, OK?"
I walked out the door, climbed in the car, and sped away.
That's one Dunkin Donuts I won't be visiting for a while.
- The Carrot