The Asshole Hunters

About 4:15 am, soon after finishing the daily report, I head to the back of the store to make coffee and finish cleaning the cappuccino machine when two elk hunters arrive. They fit all the stereotypes; living cartoons -- Elmer Fudds, only with NRA hats and Cabelas camouflage jackets.

"You don't have coffee made yet?" the larger, more obese of the two says.
"Not yet, just getting to it if you don't mind waiting a few minutes," I reply.

I get a pot of Columbian started. 

"Do you realize it's a Saturday morning during hunting season?" he asks.
"I'm well aware of that," I say. "Been a busy morning, but will have some freshly brewed here in a few moments."
"I ain't got all morning," he says. "Elk don't sit around waiting all day."

I point to the cappuccino machine. "I can have that put back together pretty quickly and you can have some of that if you want?"

He shrugs his shoulders and nods. I assume it means yes, so I get it up and running in less than a minute. He puts his cup under the French-Vanilla-flavored spout, pushes the button, and the cream-colored liquid begins dispensing. He quickly pulls his cup away while the coffee continues pouring all over the counter and floor I had just cleaned a half-hour earlier.

"That looks like crap," he says. "That ain't French Vanilla."
"Yes, it is French Vanilla," I reply. "Why did you let it spill all over the counter and floor?"

About that same time, the other Fudd decides to remove the coffee pot before it's finished brewing and Columbian coffee also spills all over the counter and floor.

No apologies. Not even an "oops." Instead, the more obese Fudd says, "Don't you got any coffee ready?"

"I was trying," I said. "But you've spilled half of it, and don't even seem to give a shit. I just finished cleaning all of this . . . "
"Ain't that your job?" obese Fudd says.

My response: "Get the fuck out of this store. NOW!"

They did.