Loser News

Yah maaan, eh..

That’s right, the alien connection has spread beyond our country’s borders, diving into the crisp blue waters of the Carribean, and chugging its way through the vast nothingness of the great white north.  I’m Fox Mulder, and I carry a badge…well, it’s really just an I.D., but it does the trick. 

Now, I’ve seen some things that would turn you white, but this…this gives me the willies, or the heebie-jeebies, if you will.  My favorite java joint, Bean There Done That, was closed for “repairs”.  It seems that the health inspector had found something unseemly in his mocha-java non-fat latte and requested they plunge the rat poo out of their foam tubes, but that’s a tail for another day, pardon the pun.  So, I drove my nondescript blue Oldsmobuick into the drive-thru at the local Tim Horton’s, hoping to find a tolerable cup of joe and a doughnut that wouldn’t give me TMJ.

What I got was more than I bargained for.  (Pardon the preposition at the end of the last sentence, but I have to do that sometimes to get that “hard bitten” Sam Spadesque quality I attempt to convey in my literary endeavors).

I walked in, and the twenty-something beatnik girl behind the counter swung her dreads-locks around to ask me if she could take my order.  I assumed the question was rhetorical.  I asked for a grande house blend with some room for cream and a dozen glazed doughnut holes. 

Well, either the dreads were off-center or I’d just confused her.   I pointed at the coffee machine and the doughnut holes five feet away and repeated my order.  She smiled at me like I was retarded.

She brought me a small coffee and ten doughnut holes.  I advised her I’d ordered a dozen, but she just giggled derisively and told me that Timbits come in three Snack Pack sizes: 10, 20, and 40.  I could smell the stench of the metric system over the rich aroma of Arabic beans in my tall houseblend (Arabic beans found in, among other places,the Blue Mountains of Jamaica). I told her I wanted to talk to the manager.  So, she ushered up this fat guy in a winter cap who starts telling me the story of Tim Hortons’ ascendancy into coffee greatness, ending every other sentence with an “eh”. 

The pieces started sliding together.  In my quest for caffeine, I’d stumbled into a cross cultural junction, where the West Indies and the Great White North converge to form a densely populated realm of beer swilling ganga addicts.  I drew my weapon and started backing toward the door, despite the managers insistence that “firearms weren’t allowed in Tim Hortons, eh.”

Once outside, the world shifted back to normal and I just filed it away as another paranormal experience. But some nights, when I’m cuddled up to my stuffed Gizmo doll in my Star Wars sheets and Incredible Hulk jammies, I wake up with the scent of coffee in my nose and a black, gold, green, and red rasta toque hanging from my bedpost…and I have to call Scully to come over to take me to the bathroom.