Old School Griffin

I’ve recently started going full Peter Griffin to stifle the horrible monotony of wake, work, sleep, repeat. Old school Peter. Specifically, that episode where he narrates his whole life play-by-play.

For example, this morning it was:

“Molly awoke quite groggy, but frightened. What was that prehistoric sound? A high pitched whine pulled her farther from the warmth and comfort of her bed. She could feel herself growing angry. The too-bright screen on her cell phone read 6:02 A.M. The Jurassic cry rang out again. Someone’s gon’ learn today.”

Yesterday, it was almost the end of my shift. There was a nice calm, quiet thing going on in there. Everyone was just kind of enjoying each others’ company without saying too much. No one was bothering each other, but everyone was happy. Idyllic is the word. I heart idyllic. It makes me like you and want to be near you. It says, hey, you look like you’re spent and want to just say nothing. Cool, me, too. And then, in walks Crazy Pants. Crazy Pants is loud and odd and someone I had never seen before. He was drinking some strange concoction he seemed to have picked up in the imaginary war he fought in in the imaginary branch of the military he was a part of. You know, back in Snitzerlind when he was in the Flavy. But he doesn’t like to talk about it, because, you know, flashbacks. Of nothing. (He was literally in fake military garb. I just felt the need to spell it out. I want you to really feel my pain here.)

So, this loon is sitting there acting like he knows things about things, and I’m trying to stop gritting my teeth because I have pretty nice teeth that involved braces and retainers and just a whole lot of manpower to get these babies all pretty and straight, and I don’t need some guy I’ve never met ruining all that for me. And then. Then. Out comes the harmonica.

Why is it always on my shift? I mean, really. I get the off-key acoustic solos. The fights. The cops. The day where I had no water. The thieves. The stink bomb. Come on already!

So, he plays this little ditty on his MOUTH HARP and then he takes out a teeny tiny itsy bitsy harmonica. And we’re like, oh, wow…you go everywhere with that? (To which he beamingly nodded.) And we tell him he’s really good (which he wasn’t bad, but this is Wisconsin and people are always assuring you of your amazingness even if you’re just very “meh.”)

He goes, “Yeah, I’m a lot better than I used to be.”

And the bartender sass inside of me came bursting out, “Is that what you say to all the ladies?”

“And there was a collective inhale as the crowd went wild, and Molly just sat back and enjoyed the weirdness that had somehow become her life.”

To be continued…

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