Today’s rant is brought to you by The Barking Kudu
Why is that EVERY single restaurant I”ve presented a Groupon with via a cellphone has said the virtually the same thing?:“OH! We can’t use that—-that, whatever that device is. We have to have the Groupon printed! Does that thing print?” I’ve given up trying to explain that the numbers that appear under the Groupon bar code on my cell’s screen are not just random—- a waitron can do the same thing they do at WalMart’s when the scanners gotten all crusty again: Type the number into your POS you…never mind.
I heard some approximation of this just last night at the Barking Kudu from some bar-tending luddite 25 years my junior. Congratulations on your restaurant’s 8th anniversary. Now if you want to make it to your tenth—then get with the program! Groupon’s bring in new customers—-like me! I will remember my first time at your establishment, just not in the way that you intended for me to. One more thing: Mouth breathing’s not good for your dental hygiene—just sayin’…
Groupon—Helllooooo…Please! could you just a few minutes off from suckin’ up to Sergy and Brin, and do some vendor education as to the fine print, specifically: printing is not necessarily the way business is done anymore? If I can be held to the fine print, then why can’t your “other’” customers? If I can shop for it, and pay for it on my phone, why the hell do I have to go home and print the damn thing? Do they have this problem at Living Social?
(Source: barkingkudu.com)
Void »
This is my confession that no one will hear. It’s an indictment with no one to be served. Not a vacuum to be filled, a void where nothing used to be. Something has stripped my bones without being noticed. I used to be. I am an ex something. It feels like an almost cold, musty smelling room that is supposed to have been lit. It has no door. I think I exist here, but can’t be sure. I’d leave, but there’s nowhere to go. I can’t remember when I arrived and have a hard time imagining my departure. I can hear echos of what might have been. I am regret, and not hope. Hope would imply desire, and I have none. My desire lacks an object. I have pushed off. My appetite is neither hungry nor satisfied. I have pain but I can’t tell where. Solitude is no longer a solace. With the exception of yesterday, I’ve never felt so alone, distinct and seperate from. I don’t want to do. Even nothing doesen’t interest me. My usual interests aren’t. I’m just going through the motions. I am a great distance from here. My obligations aren’t to anyone. My things can’t be stolen, because they’re unwanted. I make my empty to-do list every day. My lust isn’t sure what it wants. I am neither male or female. I feel like I’m done, but don’t know what with. Theres no longer an up or down. My tomorrows are all yesterdays. My beginnings lack an end. Death is no longer an anticipated release. What is not quite alive probably can not die. God doesn’t care to bless me OR damn me. Even the devil is indifferent to my soul. I used to remember how to get away.
