Peace of Pie

So I'm going to wind up about five minutes late for work today. Normally, I wouldn't gripe, but I happen to love my new job, so now I'm annoyed.

And why?

Because some asshole at my usual coffee spot couldn't fucking decide which pie he wanted. There I am, patiently grasping a piping hot cup of fuel, and this knucklehead doesn't even have the courtesy to make a fucking decision.

Not normally rant-worthy, I know, but here's the kicker:

He's using an Access card.

Food stamps.

Not for bread, milk, and eggs, either. For a fucking piece of pie.

And that is what annoys me.

He's holding me up from going to work, so I can pay for his food (which in all honesty, I don't mind. It's a great program that feeds a lot of people. I just think it needs some work) for a fucking piece of pie.

And not gramma's pie, but manufactured, blister-packed pie.

You know what that means?

It's all the fucking same flavor, just different colors.

So, please dude, pick your favorite color pie, and move the fuck on. As an alternative, you can also step the fuck aside for the 3.14 seconds it will take me to hand over my buck and a half for the coffee and scat.