Today it is nice enough to sit outside at Starbucks. The sun is shining, or shining enough of the time, there is a moderate breeze that does not offend me when the sun is indeed shining, and no one is smoking next to me. All is right with the world for an hour. I order an Iced Venti Latte to celebrate the 60-some degree weather.

My main companion outside is a minuscule Yorkshire Terrier, tied to a table by a long navy leash. He shivers in indignation at being left alone, and has now started yapping a single YAP every four seconds. Exactly. Like a horrible, horrible, horrible alarm clock. I glare at him. He considers me for a bit, sticks out his ungodly repulsive long hot-pink tongue for a moment and begins yapping again. I think for a moment about the physics of a human foot propelling a small, say, 5-pound object into the air approximately following the proportions and trajectory of St. Louis’s Gateway Arch. The dog quiets. Heh.

Because there is sun, a truck drives by slowly with its windows down blaring booming hip hop music. Thank you, sir, for sharing your passion with us all. I feel your coolness lay upon me like a douchebag filled with crushed ice. Please, please keep cruising past, raising the volume so that I can see it shake the windows of the Starbucks. I want to feel what you feel! I promise, in another ten years when you are 30 and STONE FUCKING DEAF, I will remember you, you and your selfless sharing.

A chubby-cheeked toddler with a pink “Las Vegas Loves Me” t-shirt stomps next to her father with the righteous steps of the confident new walker. Her father corrals her, grinning a bit. I smile at them both. She wants to go over to the yap dog, but recoils when the dog faces her and YAPS at her. Stupid dog. What good is a dog that yaps at a baby? Dogs should smile and be compliant with children. They should yap at big black booming trucks. BOOM. YAP! BOOM-BOOM. YAP! BOOM. YAP!

Ah, there’s Yap’s owner now. She looks about my age, but very Bohemian/hippie/cool, with cascades of jet black curly long hair, a heather gray t-shirt dress with sleeves that cover her hands and dark gray striped leggings, with rubbery-looking tan sandals. Yap settles in under her chair, she smiles widely, and begins writing what I imagine is a letter to someone equally Bohemian, perhaps someone taking a year to build a fresh water supply system in Tibet. She stops writing, picks Yap up and sits him on her lap, and begins picking over his fur like he was a small tan and black gorilla baby. His tongue lolls out and she makes cooing sounds at him. I want to barf a little. Just like a little stomach acid. Just that much only.

Should I be this obnoxious on such a nice day? Signs point to YES!