I Yelled at a Mongolian Stoner

A Dave Christmas saga

With my current Takimag piece about food delivery dangers burning up the charts (here it is if you haven’t read it yet), it’s a typical Dave in the life that I’d encounter my worst food delivery guy ever yesterday.

That it was a stoner Mongol just makes it funnier.

This is not my best drunken Christmas ever. All I want is to spend December drunk and happy. Is that a crime? Am I violating the laws of God or man? No! I just wanna be drunk. In my own home. Not harming anyone.

As I detail in my Takimag piece, I have a running battle with the Vons grocery chain up the street, the only supermarket left in my neighborhood after Ralphs (Kroger) pulled out several years ago because the L.A. City Council mandated that grocery stores would have to issue “hero pay” bonuses to employees who worked during Covid, and Kroger decided to punish the City Council by closing stores in black and Jew areas (beans are the majority in L.A., but because they don’t vote and generally don’t care about politics, blacks and Jews pretty much run everything).

So Kroger’s like “hero pay? Okay, sure. We’ll obey. But also, that Ralphs in the only remaining black neighborhood? And the so-called ‘kosher Ralphs’ in Beverly Hills? We’re shuttering both immediately to cover the costs you’ve inflicted upon us.”

The City Council demands extra pay for workers who didn’t drop dead of Covid but because Fauci said they WOULD drop dead of Covid the workers need to be paid bonuses because of the fear they faced due to a panic spread by the very Democrats who run the City Council and who now demand compensation for the “mental distress” caused by the panic they themselves created, and Kroger/Ralphs responds by taking racial revenge by shuttering Jew and black stores to punish “guilty” ethnics who want nothing more than to buy food.

You people actually fear World War III? Welcome it. The world’s never needed a nuclear enema more than it does now.

So, in my neighborhood we have one grocery store left — Vons — and the employees there have a habit of using delivery orders to unload unsellable merchandise. The expired meats, the cans bloated with botulism, the orange juice cartons that look like Peyton Manning used them for punting practice then shoved them up his ass for good measure (I hear he does that).

It’s always a risk ordering from that store. Maybe 50% of the items will be edible, maybe 50% won’t. But GrocerBot, the Vons automated delivery app, allows you to get a refund on up to two items per order. So I always know that I can get refunded the two most egregiously expired items I receive. Sure, I don’t get edible food, which was the reason I ordered in the first place, but at least I’m not on the hook to pay for the spoiled stuff.

Three days ago I ordered a bunch of bottled water, because the trick to being an alcoholic and not dying is to stay hydrated. And I can’t drink tap because I have no tap — my kitchen sink conked out years ago. Those of you who remember my YouTube videos will recall how my sink is a dick and when it broke I realized that it did it on purpose to force me to spend money I don’t have to replace it and I was like “I’m not gonna be extorted by a sink so I’ll just learn to live without you, douchebag.”

By the way, my schizophrenia is progressing nicely. Thank you for asking.

Three days ago I ordered a bunch of bottled water to supplement my booze, and of course, two of the three bottles arrived Peyton Manning’d — damaged beyond repair, leaking, filthy. So yesterday I decided to order more water. But the thing is, you can’t just order a few water bottles from Vons. Your order must be a minimum of $30. So I says to myself I says “I’ll get some frozen foods to stock up for dinner.” And that means only Stouffer’s because, and please don’t ask me why as I’ve no explanation to give, at that Vons every other frozen dinner brand — Marie Callender’s, Boston Market, Hungry Man — arrives looking like Lyle Alzado used it for punting practice, shoved it up his ass, died of cancer in 1992 with the frozen dinner still shoved up his ass, was buried, exhumed in 2024, the dinner extracted from his corpse, re-shelved at Vons and delivered to me.

You think I’m kidding but there’s something deathly wrong with the Vons frozen dinner freezer. And only Stouffer’s is unaffected. If you know frozen foods, you know that Stouffer’s uses a laminated glossy box rather than a thin paper box, so I think that’s why the brand is unaffected by the shitty refrigeration system.

Knowing that I have to order a minimum of $30, I supplemented my bottles of water with a bunch of Stouffer’s frozen meals.

It was a simple order. All told — food, tax, driver’s tip, and the extra two bucks I pay to get direct delivery (Vons contracts with DoorDash for delivery and you have to pay $2 extra or else the drivers will do other deliveries first; that $2 ensures that they drive straight to your house) — it came to $38.

Okay, cool. Bring it on.

GrocerBot is really good at keeping you informed of your order’s progress.

I’ll be honest…there are times when I feel like he’s my best friend in the world.

“GLEEP-GLOOP THIS IS GROCERBOT. YOUR ORDER IS BEING ASSEMBLED AS WE SPEAK!”

Thank you GrocerBot.

“GLEEP-GLOOP YOUR ORDER HAS BEEN PREPARED! IT IS AWAITING A DELIVERY DRIVER.”

You’re the best, GrocerBot.

“GLEEP-GLOOP YOUR DRIVER IS HERE AND THE ITEMS HAVE BEEN LOADED INTO HIS CAR!”

I think I love you, GrocerBot.

“GLEEP-GLOOP I AM A ROBOT AND INCAPABLE OF KNOWING LOVE. ALSO, FUCK OFF FAGGOT.”

I’m notified that the driver has picked up my items. At that point, the app allows you to see the driver’s GPS progress. My home is three minutes from the store, so I rarely use the tracking app because why? Literally the minute I get the notification that the order is on its way, it arrives. No need to track it. The store is that close.

Well, three minutes go by, no delivery. Four minutes. Five minutes. I click on the tracking app and see that the driver, “Askar B,” is still in the Vons parking lot.

“Hmm, must be busy there,” I think. “I guess he’s having a hard time pulling out, a problem I’ve never had which is why I’m blessedly childless.”

But then ten minutes go by. Fifteen. Twenty. And Askar B is still in the parking lot.

The fuck?

DoorDash allows you to contact your driver, so I call him. And I don’t yell or anything, I just politely ask “is there a reason you’re not bringing my order? Those are perishable items; they shouldn’t be sitting in a car.”

And here’s the best I can make of what I heard on the other end of the phone: “Magarblegarble chawhaw no speak English barblemurgle chaw.”

A fucking HOUR goes by and Askar is still sitting in that parking lot. I call him again, more angry this time.

“Where’s my food?”

“Broooofleglumby I a block away come soon grrrooflemalunga.”

30 more minutes go by. At this point I’m on the phone with the Vons “VIP line” (I pay $15 a month for Vons VIP service, which means that the customer service reps I get are Mexican instead of Guatemalan) and I explain that the driver’s been sitting in the parking lot for 90 minutes and I want to cancel the order. The shit’s thawed by now. Let’s just forget the order ever happened.

And the senorita says “of course, weeee geeev reeeefund, but eeeeef deeeelivery hombre show up, yoo must reeeeeefuse deeeeeeeeeelivery and tell heeeeeem to reeeeturn food to stooooooooore.”

That disturbed me…the idea that these thawed items might be put back on the shelf. Because then I’d just get them again the next time I ordered.

But I tell the senorita that I’ll comply. Then she asks me if I have leaves that need blowing, and I respond, well, not leaves, but…”

So finally, after an hour-forty, Askar starts driving to my house (I see it on the app). And, knowing that I can only get the refund if I refuse the order, I get ready to tell him to take the shit back. But also, knowing that the name Askar can be Arabic, I’m cautious to be a Jew yelling at a guy whose entire culture revolves around killing Jews.

If a person’s national identity is “I kill Jews,” it’s best for Jews to not provoke him.

I see Askar’s kar pull up outside my house. And who gets out? A fat moon-faced Mongolian…a shambling pie-faced doughy Mongol. I open the door to tell him I’m refusing the order, and immediately the smell of pot smacks me in the face like a Joe Rogan fart. I see his glazed bloodshot eyes, and in a flash I realize…this asshole was sitting in that parking lot for over 90 minutes smoking weed while my $38 in perishable groceries thawed in his trunk.

And I lost it. I’ve not raised my voice in anger to a fellow human since 2014 when dealing with an obstinate city official regarding my mother’s Alzheimer’s. But holy shit did I lose it with Askar. Because it all just hit me, the idiocy of the entire situation. A delivery app that works well but is hampered first by incompetent store employees I have to out-think to not get moldy food, and now, even when I’ve out-thought the store by ordering items that can’t be defiled by poor refrigeration, I get a Third World stoner who sits with my groceries in his trunk for over 90 fucking minutes smoking pot because he’s the ant in Genghis Khan’s afterbirth and only a nation as gullibly stupid as the U.S. would let him in and give him a job delivering food.

So I did something I hadn’t done in years: I yelled. “TAKE THAT FUCKING FOOD BACK YOU FUCKING STONER ASSHOLE…TAKE IT BACK…TAKE IT BACK…TAKE IT THE FUCK BACK YOU FAT FUCKING LAZY FUCK” waving my arms furiously as he backed away sporting the shocked expression every stoner displays when normies object to their dereliction.

I took joy in scaring the guy; I don’t mind admitting that. And as I chased him off my porch, he dumped the bags on my front steps and made a pathetic squealing noise that was either an exclamation of fear or an apology in the cat-wailing that passes for language among his pathetic people.

What angered me was not so much his moon face or red eyes but the fact that something that should’ve been so simple had been rendered so difficult. It’s funny, you know? We spend millions of dollars field-testing apps, but we don’t do that with people. The Vons app works great. But the people at the store unload spoiled goods, and the drivers are stoned Mongolians.

I have to confess, I loved seeing the fear in the eyes of that human detritus. We are surrounded by inferiors (and I don’t mean that racially; I mean just generally humans who are of poor quality, of all races and ethnicities), and if once in a while you can ruin their day as they’ve done yours, do it.

I hadn’t raised my voice in ten years. As I mourned my spoiled food, I felt good. It was a necessary release.

Also, I’m out $38. Because even though the phone senorita promised me a refund, I knew that GrocerBot does not grant refunds on full orders. I received no refund, nor will I.

So if you’ve enjoyed this true tale, BUY ME A BEER for Christmas, and if I get enough “beers” to equal the $38 I lost, I’ll be a happy happy Dave and it’ll be a happy happy Christmas!

Epilogue:

David Cole’s best friend, upon hearing of the Vons debacle, brought over 20 water bottles so that Dave won’t die from alcohol dehydration. The friend then had to sit for an hour to hear a drunken recounting of the story you just read. He soon regretted his charity.

David Cole’s other best friend, a Silicon Valley tech genius, reiterated the same offer he’s made for two years to replace Dave’s kitchen sink free of charge. Dave explained that he prizes his ability to adapt to hardened circumstances above any kitchen sink, and the friend realized that Dave’s schizophrenia is progressing well indeed.

DoorDash driver Askar became co-host of the Joe Rogan Podcast, revealing in an episode made viral by Tucker Carlson that the moon landing was impossible because if it takes him 90 minutes to drive five blocks it’s not mathematically possible for astronauts to reach the moon in three days. Rogan declared Askar the most based genius on earth, and they both died after forgetting to breathe.

Dave’s Substack supporters BOUGHT HIM A BEER and he got his $38 back. He now drunkenly hangs over the branch of a tree in his backyard as his gardeners use him as a piñata.

Merry Christmas.