I enjoy breakfast at a good dive every now and again. I don’t need linen napkins, ceramic coffee cups, or an attentive wait staff. Periodically I can endure the “uncivilized” for a good piece of bacon. One of my favorite spots to hob nob with the “plain folk” is the Double Barrel. On a recent pop in, it seemed the patrons were more colorful then usual. At the table behind my boyfriend sat a mother and daughter, the daughter carrying a baby basket with a new human in it. From what I could overhear, they were arguing about what a loser the baby daddy was. To the right side of me was a table of old guys who looked like Lyle the chicken farmer from Napoleon Dynamite. (Please go the the Lyle link for the perfect visual.) They were hygiene challenged, missing many teeth, as well as leathery and weathered. Their booming voices suggested they were all hearing impaired. They were having their own version of coffee talk, and enjoying their chat. Up trots the waitress with her side-swept eighties ponytail held together with a green scrunchy, and the appropriate amount of flair for the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day celebration. She poured the group of “Lyle’s” a fresh cup of coffee and asked if they would like to hear a joke. She made no attempt to mute her brazen voice so she didn’t offend any of the surrounding customers, but proceeded in full bravado. “What do you call a homosexual in a wheelchair?” The Lyle’s look puzzled. “Rolaids!!!” She laughs at her own joke. Before the Lyle’s had a chance to digest the homo joke they just heard, she started joke number two. By that time I was in full on, red faced, throw down the napkin, offended mode. At the same time I was questioning if humor from 1991 was funny, or completely ghastly, I hear the punch line of the second joke. My rage made me foggy when the words “butt-load of semen” came out of her mindless chapped lips. The Lyle’s had not a clue what the jokes meant, and didn’t even offer up a courtesy laugh. But, our unpolished waitress was proud of herself.

I fought the impulse to call her an ignorant slut because I didn’t want to disorient the Lyle’s more then they already were. But, I sat there thinking that I couldn’t believe I had walked into a strange time warp of prejudice and unconsciousness where distasteful jokes could be told without thought of other patrons in this crappy little food hut. What happens if Lyle #2’s first born son spent his early years doing chores on the chicken farm wearing Ma’s finest heels and Moody Mauve lipstick? There is no way my Saturday afternoon bacon feast could get more redneck.

In walks a new customer with disheveled hair and dried snot wiped on the side of his face. Telling myself not to judge his circumstances I look away. I spend a moment observing the photo of a hawk who just arranged his dead carcass lunch on a stump. A thundering voice with a drunken slur says, “F***ing Mormons and n***ers are everywhere. I want to get my thirty ot six and shoot them all.” What!? Really? Am I being punked? Is this really happening? Can you really observe this much vulgarity and hate in a matter of 15 minutes? Can’t I relish my weekend bacon in peace? I knew it was my time to bid adieu to the fine patrons of the Double Barrel when the Mr. Boozy scowled at Lyle #3 and said, “What are you looking at old man?”