He's a clean-shaven, polite young man with impeccable social graces, this Mr. Rita is. But he's been stricken with a case of the Ritas. Take this photo right here, for example. Nothing wrong with a pencil-thin, off-season 'stache. Especially when you hail from the Cafe. But a pinwheel? Are you serious?
Sorry brother. Don't look like you getting any relief soon. Not with the T-P getting you all hot and bothered this weekend.
Here's a taste of our Cafe 641 resident's torture . . .
". . . a woman is standing in the aisle, staring at the field and bouncing gingerly on her toes, despite her impossibly tall pumps. She wears a flared black skirt, a crisp white blouse with ruffles down the front and glamorous earrings that flash now and then through her tousled, curly chestnut hair."
". . . she sometimes hoots, sometimes does a little two-step, sometimes claps slowly and rhythmically . . . . And, all the while, she takes sneak peeks at the BlackBerry that is never out of her reach."
"Go-go-go-go-go-go, " the woman wails, on her feet again. Her eyes are riveted to the . . ."