- Excuse me miss. I would like one of those fantastic … one of those … oh you know. There’s the coffee and the milk, sometimes a leaf drawn in the foam? Yes of course, a latte. Latte us pray, ha! Isn’t that a latte to ask for? Ha! No no, strictly an amateur funny man. Family dinners, Sunday afternoon football, no big venues. Venti? Venti vidi vici. I creamed, I saw … Oh sure, sure. You’ve already heard that one, a real howler to other baristas. It’s weird, right, baristas are neither bars nor Easters. A great nor’easter blowing the crema into a pretty little flower? If I’m a good boy, is it too forward to ask for a heart? Right, right–you’re neither a Bar Easter nor a nor’easter. Let’s just agree right now not to go down the bare eater track, too raw for a Saturday morning amiright?
- I was never going to be anything, especially not a contender. I’m not that torn up about it. My friend the etymologist tells me that “content” comes from the word that means to be restrained or something. And I’m certainly not restrained. I don’t take any shit from any man. I could suck a golf ball through a garden hose just like when I’m gobbling down Manhattans at the Marriott. I can still rock knee high boots with knee low skirts. I’m a real hot number. But yeah, I don’t take shit from any man. A guy at a bar grabbed my ass so I turned around and stabbed him. I poked my little finger in the hole while I asked him, “Would you grab Joy Behar’s butt? Hilary Clinton’s? Samantha from Sex and the City?” I smashed a champagne flute against his knee and started the rubbing the glass bits in. “Have you even read Wittig?” I’m a pretty bad B-I-T-C-H right? Jesus, what do I have to do to get a Manhattan in this joint?
- Look, I didn’t order my coffee “piping hot” for a reason. Everyone’s gotta pay the piper and, unfortunately for both of us, those pied pies in the display case are wanting. No no, not by me — though if we are calling a spade a spade here (just shoot me!) 800 calories is a bit steep for a muffin. My wife, you idiot, they aren’t good enough for my wife. Yeah, the one I put in the burn ward. Not my wife? Well then what is she? Some busty broad with a bobby hairdo that I’m Don Drapering, wooing with her with sweets. Pining and pie-ing like a regular ol’ carnival freak in love? Okay okay, she’s not my wife but man, does she have a caboose. Choo choo. Ha, before the whole coffee accident, the boys at the blog yards used hoot and hollar at ‘er. Charleston choo choo. Now, she’s not good for much. Well, I’m sure you have better things than listen to an ol’ timer prattle on about babes.
- Ha, look at the little fruit cake. No, not you. That little very berry calorie-wary coffee cherry cake. You take offense to me calling it queer? Let me tell you about queers in far less uncertain terms than that cake staling itself in a bardo of not-quite-food, not-quite-fuel. I didn’t have any of the social graces, certainly not under fire and I was no Clark Gable. Despite my continued efforts to square my jaw — compasses and straightedges were used — I always ended up flabby and soft. When I was old enough to slouch around flop houses and pool halls, I started “rumbling” with local toughs, ya know, just to get some spunk out. When I was old enough to understand what you’d think I meant by “rumbling around … to get some spunk out,” I started rumbling around to get some spunk out in a much more earnest fashion. I was scared stupid and you know what, youlittletwerpfornothing, I was a forerunner. A real Rock Hudson in a henhouse. So next time you see an old man wander in, nipples around his knees, shouting “queers for my horses,” I want you to show some goddamned respect.
- Yeah, that’s correct: an exposé on the macchiato. It’s not a macchiato, you know? It’s not a thimble of espresso with a Borrower’s-sized thimble of cream. It’s a caramel chess cake that you take through a straw. So what? I mean, if you can’t trust words anymore, what’s the point? I come in here looking for a teaspoon of espresso with a drop of cream and I get a milkshake. It doesn’t even fit in a tiny cup. I got more for my money, divvy it up? It’s not even hot. Look, I wanted a cup splashed with espresso steamed above a plate of cream and you gave me a gallon of milk with snickers floating in it and a knife to cut the cream cheese. Yeah, it’s bigger than my cap. Quite jaunty isn’t it. C’mon, stay focused. Give me an espresso bean aged in rennet and take back that trough of ice cream. Can I get the bathroom key?
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