Mike Diggy's Days Are Numbered

Is it normal to still experience teen angst in your 20s?

I’m happy that Sidney Crosby will be returning soon to help the Penguins finally get out of this slump.

iOS 5?  iOh, Yes!

Alternative motives aside, I can go to Quaker Steak & Lube for an oil change, right?

It’s only a matter of time before somebody slaps McDonald’s with a lawsuit for monopolizing Monopoly-themed contests.

This “Whitney” show forgot the wit.

The Colts are doing surprisingly well without James Van Der Beek.

So… how soon until we get a Facebook news ticker?

I think it’s time to downgrade my windshield wipers to windshield smearers.

Truthfully, the Netflix split sounds like a reasonable business move. But why Qwikster? Why not Qwikflix? Qwikster sounds like a Nestle-by-mail rental service.

“I’m just like everybody else. I finish my races one leg at a time.” —A line from Lance Armstrong’s autobiography, probably.

I can’t wait till I graduate, so I can finally not read books at my leisure. 

I wish this grilled chicken salad had a little more chicken and a little less grill.

Every so often, the good Lord throws me a bone and allows me to observe an event so detestably trashy that I am forced to share it with as many people as humanly possible.  This past Saturday, I was fortunate enough to witness such an occurrence.  Time for global show and tell. 

After spending a few hours at the Waterfront with some friends, I had to stop at Century III Mall in West Mifflin to pick up a few things (i.e. comic books).  The 90-degree weather did quite a number on me, so I decided to treat myself to an Orange Julius—a 32-ounce cup of icy awesomeness.  For those of you who aren’t familiar with the mid-mall eateries known as Orange Julius, I pity your fruit-drink-deprived soul.

Anyways, I stepped up to the counter and was greeted by a tiny pigtailed girl whose nametag read “Justine.”  The “i” was dotted with a smiley face.  She was probably no older than 16 or 17, but cute as a button. 

I placed my order for a large O.J., no froth, with an added banana for a boost of energy and flavor.  For a brief moment, I considered a Strawberry Julius or, perhaps, a Raspberry Julius, but the old classic won out in the end.  I paid the young girl and moved to the side as my chilly treat was being brewed.  Justine’s next customer approached the counter.  A real winner this guy was.

“Can I help you?” asked Justine, the poor thing.

“Yeah, girl,” said the 20-something thug.  He moved a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other.  “Yeah, I’ll have a Peach Julian.”

Now, I pride myself on the fact that I’m well-versed in all things Julius-centric.  Even if the name of the drink was “Julian,” I knew damn well that peach was not a flavor offered at this particular location.  This wife-beater-wearing half-wit had now earned my full attention.

Before we continue, though, please allow me to provide a more detailed description of the hoodlum at hand.  In order for you to fully grasp the sheer trashiness of this contemptible individual, you need to see what I saw…

Imagine Charlie Brown’s pal Pigpen crossed with Eminem—”Pigpeminem,” if you will.  I’ve already established that he was wearing a wife-beater tank top.  Draped over his right shoulder, however, was a #32 Shaquille O’Neal basketball jersey—not Miami Heat, but Orlando Magic.  I figure he either took off the jersey because of the heat, or he had the foresight to bring it along in case he got cold.  In his left hand, he carried a Styrofoam cup filled with what I can only hope was spittle.  He was also trying to grow a mustache—Oh, how he was trying to grow a mustache!  I could tell that he took great pride in that patchy, uneven mess that resided on his upper lip.  It complemented the toothpick nicely, I must say.

In my mind, this guy’s name was Whitey McVerywhite, or “C-Spot” to his homeboys.  Just looking at him, I felt an overwhelming rush of negative emotions.  In fact, the length in inches that C-Spot’s drawstring pants drooped below his beltline was directly proportional to the amount of sadness I felt for his mother.  I have to give him credit where credit is due, though.  His wife-beater was tucked in.

Anyway, I’m rambling.  Where was I?  Ah yes, the trashiness…

“Yeah, I’ll have a Peach Julian,” he said.

“I’m sorry.  We don’t have a Peach Julius,” Justine replied.

Waaaait for it…

“No Peach Julian?  Den why don’tchu put a lil bit o’ yoself innit fo’ me, shugah?”

In case you don’t speak West Mifflin, allow me to translate: “No Peach Julius?  Then why don’t you put a little bit of yourself in it for me, sugar?”  Yeah, he said that.

Let’s press the pause button for a moment so we can examine the three facial expressions that erupted from the previous five seconds’ escapades, shall we?  C-Spot, of course, was smirking ear-to-ear, mid-nod.  His mouth was closed, but it’s obvious that he’s saying, “Yeah, girl, do it!  Put a lil yoself innat!”  Naturally, his shit-stache lends an extra 32-ounces of sleaziness to the visual.

Justine was actually looking at me.  Her wide eyes and gaping mouth expressed an odd mix of puppy-like astonishment and uncertainty.  It’s as if C-Spot had just rapped her in the jaw with a rolled up newspaper.  The poor thing was scared to death.  And she was looking for help.  From me. 

Me?  I was looking back at Justine.  My expression was could only be described as awkward amazement.  A big part of me wanted to laugh, but a bigger part of me didn’t want to give C-Spot the satisfaction.  It was poor Justine.  The poor thing.  I didn’t know whether to say “I’m sorry” or “Good luck.” 

Ok, time to get back to the live play-by-play.

Justine was still speechless, clearly wanting me to say something.  I looked at C-Spot, and C-Spot looked at me.  After a brief moment of contemplating whether he was carrying a switchblade, I decided to inject myself into the situation with a single word…

“…Wow.”

That’s all I could muster.  C-Spot simply shook his head and continued to ogle at his prey.  In hindsight, I wish I could have done more to help poor Justine, but, sadly, she was on her own. 

“… ,” she said hesitantly.  “Sorry.  We don’t have Peach.  We have Orange or Strawberry or Pineapple or Bananarilla or—”

“Pfft, awright.  Then I be takin’ my bidness elsewhere.”

And with that, C-Spot made his way to the neighboring Mrs. Fields Cookies to harass the cute redhead behind the counter.  I may be wrong, but I believe C-Spot asked her if the cookies had enough nuts in them.

Back at the Julius, Justine and I were now alone.

“Wow.  Sorry about that,” I said.

“It’s okay, I’m kind of used to it,” she said.  “Let me get your drink for you.”

“You mean this kind of thing happens often?” I asked. 

“Well, yeah.  He comes in here a couple times a week.  That’s the second time he’s been here today.” 

Justine handed me my Orange Julius and moved on to her next customer.  Sipping on my citrusy slice of heaven, I left Century III Mall quietly reflecting on the ungodly amount of despicability that I’d just witnessed.  Several questions came to mind.  How long did it take C-Spot to come up with such a surefire pick up line?  Did he really think Justine would “put a little of herself in that?”  Does anyone else still use “peach” as a term of endearment?  Why hit on cashiers when there are perfectly good hos occupying the mall’s bus terminal? 

The As to these Qs are lost to me, but there is one thing of which I am certain:  One of these days, C-Spot is going to get Mace sprayed in his eyes.  And it will be glorious. 

The Orange Julius was delicious, by the way.

      **Note: This blog was originally posted on June 23, 2007 on MySpace.**