Snagging Santa Barbara

I have discovered where the children are. The newborns, the toddlers, the young offspring of our Santa Barbara brethren. Perhaps you are like me and assumed they did not exist. Outside of Pokemon movies and expensive pre-schools, they were invisible to me. But, my friends, I have uncovered one of their hiding places. It is....

THE MONDAY AFTERNOON SUPERMARKET!



They become visible during this short period during the day. Dragged from their car seats kicking and screaming, they look disdainfully at everyone who walks by. They are dragged, universally, by their young mothers. Young here refers not to 14 or 15 year olds knocked up in the back of an 87 VW Golf, but to the 24-31 age group once thought extinct.

They walk the earth in search of great deals, double coupons, and something shiny & distracting to seal the mouth of their spawn long enough for them to remember the grocery list. Long gone from the downtown clubbing/dating/staggering scene, they now only appear at certain times of the day. The pre-5pm market run appears to be a favorite. The 8-5 crowd is still slaving away, and the college students don't wander in until they realize their fridge contains little more than Bud Light and a year old jar of Miracle Whip. This is the perfect time for little Johnny Jr. to get some air and stop choking the cat.

Here's a tip for any of you who might venture to a supermarket during these special times: the following aisles are busy

• diapers


• frozen dinners


• wine


• pain killers


• juices


• condoms

{two female college students}

Student one: Making out with a mirror is gross!
Student two: It's not gross for me. It's fucking hot.

Allowed:

• Washing your hands


• Urination


• Defecation


• Any combination of first three


• Praying to the porcelain god


• Reading the newspaper


• Washing out your rancid coffee mug that you've been refilling every morning for 3 years without looking at it first. Because if you had looked at it, you'd have seen the layer of mold that formed around the entire interior of your Garfield mug.


• Blowing your nose


• Baby changing


• Nodding to others


• Using the handicapped stall if the others are full


• Treating a wound


• Teeth brushing


• Makeup application


• Courtesy flush


• Sex**

Not Allowed (many actually witnessed by yours truly):

• Talking at length to your fellow bladder relievers*


• Shaking hands


• Full nudity outside of a stall


• Shaking it for more than 3 seconds (men only)


• Talking on your cell phone. I recently had the good fortune to overhear the following conversation:
  *ring ring*
  The Bowel Chatterer: "Yo. Nuthin' much, just taking a shit. Yeah, I'm at some Italian joint. Nah, I won't be long, I'm regular."
  It was a very special meal.


• Turning the lights off as you leave when there are still people using the facilities


• Using the toilet as your workstation, complete with laptop. Your powerpoint presentation on the mating habits of the South American swallow can wait another 5 minutes. The clickety clack of your keyboard and the sound spilling from your iPod's earbuds is throwing off Clive Rockjaw's digestive system.


• The preparation of food


• The consumption of food


• Lines of coke off the urinal (try explaining to someone why they found trace amounts of urine in your nostril)


• Slip N Slide

*Rule does not apply when drunk.
**Rule only applies in bars, clubs, and foreign train depots with people that have thick, sexy accents.

Keep our restrooms safe Santa Barbara. If you don't, well then you might read about an incident involving three people, loud talking across stalls, a loose toilet seat cover, and felony manslaughter.

Young gentlemen of Santa Barbara, my name is Clive, and I'm not your bra. I'm not your bro, your braw, your homie, nor your homeboy. I'm your complete stranger.
Don't get me wrong; one day we might be friends. I'll laugh at your jokes, play frisbee golf with you, and pat you on the back in a consoling manner when you break up with your girlfriend (who, I'll assure you, was a tramp of the highest order). Before our friendship can blossom like a wildflower, however, we need to fix this language problem you have developed.

Let's start with the basics. This is a bra:



Form fitting, supportive, and very likely similar to something you've frantically attempted to unclasp while in the back of a compact car. Clive Rockjaw, on the other hand, does not require unclasping.

Also:


(panties included for symmetry. and because, well, they're panties. one must complete the set.)

When we, as strangers, encounter one another in a public space, you have a plethora of greetings to choose from:
"Hey there."
"Hello."
"Howdy stranger."
or even
"Your manly presence humbles me. Please, allow me to pass so that I may go forth and improve myself."

Use of a phrase such as "Scuse me bra, gots to get to the sex wax behind you." will result in immediate shunning and contempt. You might see this as stern or "harshing your buzz," but without standards, this town would fall into chaos. Then where would me and my good friend Marshal Garter live, work, and party? We'd have to retreat to Carpinteria or....Oxnard. That, my linguistically stunted friend, would make Clive Rockjaw angry. And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry. I spit a lot when I yell. It's very unpleasant.