Man Shoulders

Paul and I now live in mortal fear of being beaten to death by a giant transsexual in the parking lot of Starbucks.

For years now, Paul and I have been making a certain Starbucks a part of our Wendsday night nerdly-to-all-hell comic book run. One of the things we love about this particular Starbucks (aside from the fact that they have clearly slipped some sort of highly addictive opiate in our Frapps) is that it consistantly collects the weirdest assortment of people we have ever seen.

Every Starbucks always has that little contingent that hangs out at the tables outside where the smoking is allowed. And yeah, every Starbucks has weirdos aplenty. The thing that makes ours so unique is that the clumps of people who hang out at our 'Bucks just plain make no sense at all.

Hmm... Let's see who we have tonight:

Table one consists of two tatooed college girls, a 70-year old man in a blue blazer, and what appears to be Charro.

At table two we have a 50 year-old mid-life crisis Parrothead, an obese shirtless hippie with dreads and the bastard love child of Ronald McDonald and Marilyn Manson.

At table three, it looks like 2 suburban soccer moms, an albino with no lower jaw, and three 10 year-old girls in Catholic school uniforms playing with a shaven cat on a leash.

Think I'm exaggerating? Okay, Charro wasn't there. Otherwise, I've painted a pretty accurate picture of the kinds of people we see at the Starbucks daily freak-clump exhibition. It's not just the people, but the groups of people who clearly have absolutely nothing in common. If you were to attempt playing the "one of these things does not belong" game, you'd be there all day.

So, how exactly does this bring us to the threat of tranny-inflicted violence? We're getting there.

Two weeks ago, as we pull up to the 'Bucks, we notice this amazon woman sitting outside. (Most likely with a dwarf and a guy in full Nazi regalia... I can't actually recall...) She's eye-catching in that "Hey that woman could kick the snot out of me" kind of way, but upon first glance, fairly feminine.

As Paul and I are inside ordering, she comes in to use the rest room, and as she walks past, I get a look at her from behind. Huge man-shoulders.

I should take a moment here and say, so that I don't come across as a complete asshole, that I have absolutely no problem with transexuals. In fact, I can only imagine the horror of feeling like you were born the wrong sex. If they can get to a place where they are happier with themselves, then more power to them. I treat trannys the same way I treat anyone else, which is to say I will mock them from a distance, just like I do the elderly, children, dog owners and my own sister. (Hi Kelly! Nice shoes!)

So anyway, Man-shoulders. One bummer for male-to-female transexuals is that there are just some changes testosterone does to you that you just don't get to take back. I think it's much easier for a female to become a convincing male than vice versa. You can take all the estrogen you want, you will have man-shoulders until you die. Or at least until you get old and stooped and have uni-sex skeleton-shoulders.

Paul and I were discussing all this as we drove away from Starbucks, which is probably why Miss Man-shoulders stuck in my mind. The following week, as we were pulling in to the parking lot, I spotted her sitting at the same table, and said to Paul, "Hey, there's Man-shoulders!" Paul replied, "Quiet, she'll hear you," to which I responded "She can't hear me. Man-shoulders, man-shoulders man-shoulders!"

At which point, Paul pointed out to me that:

a) I'm a dick.

b) My voice carries.

c) My window was wide open.

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. Always check the window before you make a complete ass-clown out of yourself. Yep. Sure enough, Man-shoulders is GLARING at us as we park. Fuck. Me. Not only is Man-shoulders glaring at us, but so is her companion du jour, who appears to be an escaped felon who now makes money breaking rocks with his head. Fuckedy fuck fuck FUCK.

I need at this moment to point out that while I will make fun of you from a distance, I will not, generally speaking, make fun of you to your face. At least not unless I'm pretty sure you can take it. Because, despite how it may seem sometimes to you blog-readers, I'm not a cruel man. I take no pleasure in making people feel bad.

And so I felt awful that Man-shoulders had heard me. I felt absolutely horrible that I may have hurt her feelings, and I felt especially badly that she and her giant companion were probably going to beat me to death with my own leg.

They were probably going to beat Paul to death as well, but fuck that, he runs a lot faster than me. At least he had a fighting chance.

I considered just driving away, but I felt like at that point, leaving the scene would be an even more dickish thing to do. You can't just do a drive-by mocking like that, you have to be a man and take your lumps. So we walked in, and got our drinks, and walked out, and the whole way we were being glared at, and the whole way I am hanging my head in shame. They did not, I have to admit, beat the ever-loving shit out of us, but I figured that if they had, we would have deserved it.

Well, I would have. Paul was an innocent. Not that Paul's innocence would have stopped me from screaming "It was him, for the love of god, kill him!!!!"

See point "a" above.

Anyway, Man-shoulders and her mongoloid friend decide to spare us an ass-beating and whip us only with their scorn. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to Man-shoulders for any pain I may have caused her, for I have truly learned my lesson. She is a human being, with a heart as easily broken as yours or mine.

And because she could kick the motherfucking shit out of me. Did I mention her huge shoulders?