For you hepcat daddy-o’s and daddy-o-ettes, “Sticky Fingers” was the 11th Rolling Stones album, cut back in 1971. In rare cases, it’s also a condition where your fingers are — well. Sticky.
It’s common knowledge the 8th Sign of the Apocalypse is when your waitress delivers your soda pop in a glass stickier than Joe Biden’s nose hairs stuck to a teen coed’s neck hairs.
The other day, I was lunching at this SClarita establishment famed for serving boundless portions of red meat. If I were the owner, I’d call the place: “We Have Endless Vistas of Rare Dead Animals To Eat.”
Don’t tell four of the five Hart district board members — Linda Storli, Cherise Moore, Bob Jensen and Jimmy Webb, but not Joe Messina — but the above would make a Jim Dandy Indian name.
Dear Mr. Boston:
How dare you. Representing indigenous peoples everywhere, except for the Irish, who deserve exactly what’s coming to them, I am urging my oppressed constituents across the slave nation formerly known as America to boycott, dox, shun, protest and show our bare bottoms to you and all who associate with you or even those who have sat next to you on public transportation.
Speaking on behalf of all victimized minorities everywhere,
Karen Kowbell, Generic Albeit Concerned Angry SCV Democrat White Housewife & Spokesleader To All Persons of Goofy Pronouns
Stevenson (Our HOA recently took the liberty to remove the “Ranch” part from “Stevenson” because “Ranch” is a trigger to all minorities, non-male genders and vegans and also conjures up violent images of cowboys, who likewise should be shunned because they yodel.)
Eeeee-doo-loo-dee-lay-heeeeeee cripes, amen and boy howdy, Mrs. Kowbell. Hate to say it, but I SO AGREE with you! People should show their bottoms to yodelers, even the blankety-blank Swiss with their ozone-depleting hot cocoa!
But, speaking of sticky beverages, Mrs. K? Let’s get back to my column.
So. Lunch starts innocently enough. The perky waitress asks the usual, “And how’s your day going!?” and I tell her:
“I think I just hit an elderly person in the crosswalk and boy am I starving.”
She smiles robotically and asks what I’d like to drink.
“Whiskey in an 8-gallon rusty milking container.”
She tilts her head. Apologizes. They’re out of milking containers. And whiskey. I order Dr. Pepper. A few moments pass and she returns with an effervescent glass of the soda, which is actually just prune juice, cherries, Alka-Seltzer and brine. At the time, I didn’t notice. My glass was sticky. Anteater tongue sticky.
I order tri-tip. They’re out. “Have you then — bi-tip?”
She pretends not to hear me. I order steak. They’re out. Prime rib? Out. Not making it up. As valley historian, I offered a wide, panoramic gesture and short speech that this very restaurant used to sit smack dab on prime Pleistocene bison grazing land. We started floating downstream to lesser cuts of meat. Venison. Pork chops. Gopher. Soylent Green?
She asks: “What’s that?”
I smile, say nothing.
I ordered a cheeseburger. Closing my menu, I politely asked if the chef could include a big bowl of their “World-Famous House Chili!”
Beans. Beans. The musical fruit. The more you eat, the more you…
“…We’re out,” she said, tilting her head sideways and offering a pretend sad face. “Sorr-reee!!”
She was cheery. I’ll give her that. She bounced away and I was left alone with my Dr. Pepper. I picked it up to take a life-giving swig, made a face and tried to set it down. Couldn’t. The entire glass was stickier than an oil-slicked Orange County beach at high tide. With effort, I pry free my fingers. Times are tough with the Chinese Flu and restaurateurs are rationing everything, especially napkins. Thanks to new rules by Gavin Newsom, you only get one paper napkin, per family, and by law, must take it home, wash it, then sign a decree swearing you reused it as toilet paper. I should have brought in an 18-pack of Brawny paper towels, whom I trust will now become a loyal Signal advertiser after said shameless plug.
I suppose I could’ve just wandered around the café, picking up lint off the floor with my gluey fingers. Instead, I gingerly rubbed my damp, sugary fingertips on my britches, then waved, trying to get my server’s attention. I know she saw me. Pretended she didn’t. A few minutes later, she bounced my burger on the table, pulled the Old Waitress Trick of doing a 180, sprinted off to parts unknown then speed-mumbled: “IsthereanythingelseIcangetforyou?”
Well. “Sure,” I say to no one. A glass without tree sap on the outside? I mean, my fingerprints are already on file at the sheriff’s station. Turpentine? A 6-foot-long bendy straw?
My server finally returns. I patiently explained that the outside of my glass is stickier than Hunter Biden in a confessional. I smile and ask for a clean glass. And a car wash coupon for my hands.
She returned with more Dr. Pepper on a tray, overflowing, most of the syrupy drink on the outside of the 3-ounce red plastic glass. I’ve run out of places on my jeans to wipe my hands. I make eye contact with a nice family the next booth over. Lutherans, I believe. All eight are forlornly holding their sticky hands in the air.
I made it outside and washed my hands with mud from a planter.
I’ve been Craving Red Meat lately.
I’ve got a good friend in Bakersfield. He’s a cattle rancher. I think I’m going to sneak over to his place, rustle a steer, remove the hooves, eyeballs and conscience, salt then broil it over a campfire.
I’m going to wash down the bovine with a 12-pack of ice-cold Dr. Pepper.
With the Dr. Pepper on the inside of the can.
Not vice versa…
John Boston writes the Mr. SCV column Fridays, which is not to be confused with his Mr. Sticky SCV column.