The coffee I ordered earlier today tasted like poo. Let’s be honest, all coffee occasionally resembles a vague insinuation to bitter filth, but this was a straight-up call-and-response between coffee & mouth that went a lot like:
Mouth: No! Poo! Is that you?
Coffee: Here I am again!
Coffee: I can’t heaaaaaar youuuuuuuu…
Mouth: *dry heaves*
Coffee: Yeah! It’s a party!
Mouth: I daresay, my good chap, unhand my tongue!
The only problem was I got the coffee from a girl working at the coffee shop under direct supervision of a manager. If I tried to return the coffee pleading a free replacement for the grievous injury done to my taste buddies, I would certainly get her in trouble of the grittiest kind. So I decided to just throw it away.
it wasn’t that the coffee was missing sugar, but rather, a heart
alternate caption: grounds for a lawsuit
photo courtesy of Flickr and Steve Longus
As I was throwing the vile stuff away, it splashed on the wrong side of the trashcan, proving it was bad both in taste and character. That is to say, it fell on the trashcan instead of in the trashcan. And that, ladies and men, is how I created more trouble for society by trying to stay under the radar.
I think we know how the lesson goes. Give a man a coffee, he’ll wake up. Teach a man to get a coffee, you’ve got yourself a new intern.
I’m not going to apologize for this rambly nonsense. It’s Monday. That’s right. The classic Monday defense. The oldest pity party in the book! Respect your elderly parties. Metamucil mini quiches and all.