<![CDATA[<body><script type="text/javascript">
function setAttributeOnload(object, attribute, val) {
if(window.addEventListener) {
window.addEventListener('load',
function(){ object[attribute] = val; }, false);
} else {
window.attachEvent('onload', function(){ object[attribute] = val; });
}
}
</script>
<div id="navbar-iframe-container"></div>
<script type="text/javascript" src="https://apis.google.com/js/platform.js"></script>
<script type="text/javascript">
gapi.load("gapi.iframes:gapi.iframes.style.bubble", function() {
if (gapi.iframes && gapi.iframes.getContext) {
gapi.iframes.getContext().openChild({
url: 'https://www.blogger.com/navbar/28838915?origin\x3dhttp://not-politically-correct.blogspot.com',
where: document.getElementById("navbar-iframe-container"),
id: "navbar-iframe"
});
}
});
</script>]]>
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
We started our holiday weekend with cones at Baskin Robbins Saturday. It was the warmest day in a long time, and we were thoroughly enjoying each lick when a disturbance started at the counter. A short, well-dressed Latina in sunglasses had started to yell at the teenaged clerk. "I paid a lotta money for this cake, and I want it right!" she snapped. The clerk said she had to pay more for the cake repairs: "You damaged this cake, and you have to pay." "Bitch! I want to see your manager! I am taking this cake right now!" the lady retorted. From the back, the "manager" emerged--another teenager sporting a rectangular badge. More than one patron looked up with interest. The customer repeated her demands--then unbelievably started wrestling for the cake while spewing muffled epithets. It was a cake-wrestling match! At this point, I yelled: "Hey, lady--that's a teenager!" and two of the men in the shop jumped to their feet. "There's kids here!" "Back off!" they shouted. The slender one who had lept from a booth shared with several kids (divorced dad?) was bristling. "I am CALLING THE COPS if you don't leave right now," Divorced Dad yelled, flipping open his cell. "I paid for this cake, and I'm taking it with me!" the lady said, grabbing for the box again. "Grow up, lady--it's just a cake!" added the portly Grandpa type. At this point, we left--watching DD follow the woman out to her Toyota, and intone her license plate numbers into his mouthpiece.
