That’s Hansel, he’s so hot right now.

Today I awoke looking like a cave woman, my hair between an afro and a high-five.

Not as victorious as it sounds, folks. Ordinarily, this would be Gay Prince’s cue but he’s been interstate for a month, damn his unicorn ass. I miss him like the first season of Master Chef (primarily when hungry); and, bereft of distraction, I’ve been left at the mercy of the Family Von Trapp (aka gunslingers, Schwarzenegger and passive-aggressive Cult Boy).

Such is how I came to get my vicarious on with Coffee Guy.

Having ditched my usual bistro for lattes more tepid than Woody Allen’s undies, I came upon Coffee Guy like a mirage in the decaffeinated desert. He served coffee like he served me looks – pipin’ hot and ready to go. Now, this guy looks like a French mime corked before its recommended year – tall, dark and tattooed (with a distinct Ozzy Osbourne hum). He’s eccentric at best, maniacal at worst. And has taken a shine. To me.

A miracle the likes of which Susan Boyle has never seen.

‘See, mornings, I look like Judge Judy upon wind tunnel exit (with much the same disposition). If we graded my mood on the curve – at dawn, I’m the epitome of evil. By sunset, I’m the vinegary miser you know today. And between these ineffectual safety flags lies ‘crusty’ – coincidentally around the time I see Coffee Guy.

Ergo. Ipso facto. Mīrāculum.

He breaks into song when I step up to the counter and recently, has enlisted the help of a yenta to make contact. [Yenta, being the lady who greets me each morning and contact, the taking of said order.] It’s true, I may be delusional but let’s just put it this way … if she aint his yenta, then she’s hittin’ on me, yo.

She looks like Betty Grable and treats her customers like faceless suits. Except for me. She’s been on a steady campaign to charm my crusty socks off, cleverly eliciting intimate details (such as my name) which then make into conversations with Coffee Guy.

Meanwhile, he’s got his work cut out for him. I’ve realised I disagree with men who are attracted to me. I’m tempted to say, “Look, you’re wrong. Here are the reasons why …”

Published by the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

81 thoughts on “That’s Hansel, he’s so hot right now.

  1. FYI… I nominated you for the Versatile Blogger award. If you have already gotten it, just know that your writing is still appreciated. If you haven’t ever received it, you can visit my blog today for instructions.

    Your blog is HILARIOUS!! I know I’ve told you that before, but it is!! So I couldn’t resist!

    1. You’re the best, thank you so much WiT. I’m a heel for taking so long to reply to your awesomeness. If I buy you a life-sized doll of Richard Simmons, will you forgive me? Nothing like a white-man’s afro to lift your spirits, wot. And I’ll throw in a complimentary set of matching hot pants, so you can dress to match. No, no! No need to thank me. It’s the least I can do.

  2. I laugh out loud as I imagine you cruising through life making these statements powerful enough to snap the necks of lesser mortals whose curse…a Teflon brain…actually comes in handy for once. (To be said in the dulcet and mellifluous tones of Sam Kinison.) I would like to be in the insipid cubical next to you so I could eat popcorn and watch you and The Gunslingers stalk through Tombstone, pistols at the ready!
    But seriously…your brilliant! yo ; )

    1. Crackadoooodies, thanks muchly most infinite of monkey theorems. Your popcorned presence’d be most welcome (especially in my management meetings, yo).

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