January 13 - Bunch of Slow Ass Bastards, Man

What the hell is it, Slow Ass Bastards' Day around here? This whole damn place is horrible with slow ass bastards determined to milk their tables as long as possible. Every other jackass here is just freaking sitting there with an empty cup and an open book, completely oblivious to all of us miserable cocksuckers waiting for an empty table to sit at.
Campers, man.
Bunch of freaking blind ass campers.
A table of three started slowly gathering up their things. He stood in front of their table, shooting Hurry the Christ up! glares at them, while he got in position to box the rest of the standing customers out if necessary, but there was nobody else around. All the other hoverers were in a different section.
They weren't even close.
If these slow ass, evil hussies could put just the slightest bit of fast on it, this table will be mine.
They dillied.
And then they dallied.
Minutes passed.
And yet they lingered and chatted, their shopping bags just sitting there on the table. He looked out the corner of his eye for other options. Nearby tables were being vacated and filled. Opportunities lost.
At last the women left, and from out of nowhere a pair of crafty, devious, old crows swooped in from out of nowhere and put their things on the table.
Unfreakingbelievable.
He looked around for witnesses, fully confident that anyone who had seen the outrage would back him up.
No.
They all pretended not to notice and carried on with their conversations.
Screw this.
"Um, hi. Maybe you didn't see me, but I was kind of waiting for that table?"
"Hmm?" one of them said. "No. We were here before you. I saw you in line."
He hadn't seen them in line and in any case he felt like it didn't matter. Who kept track of who'd gotten there first?
Was it enough to get in a pissing match over, though? In front of all these people?
Yes, he thought. Hell yes. That was my table. Freaking mine. Ask anybody.
He made the commitment and leaned in to let them have it.
"Sir?"
"Yes?" He turned around.
"White chocolate truffle latte--decaf?"
Christ, he thought. Of all the days not to order black coffee.
"Yeah, that's me," he said, taking his cup.
The old women looked at him with pity, and he shriveled in stature.
His credibility shot, he slinked away to look for another table. As he was leaving, he could have sworn he heard one of the old women say, "White chocolate truffle latte decaf? What a fucking girl's drink."
And then they both laughed.