Two Sentences on Starbucks

The roster of Starbucks visitors consists of virtually every identifiable segment of society: the bed-headed sleepwalkers with bleary eyes and fuzzy slippers for whom coffee is the equivalent of a full-body Viagra, the four-espresso-shot stock broker whose heart refuses to crank its way up to the requisite 160bpm unless jolted with an early morning caffeine overdose, the lycra-sporting housewife whose metabolic rate rivals that of a crack-addicted hummingbird and who skips the latte, preferring to take her double cappuccino without milk so she can simply lactate into the cup and lose the extra half-ounce of weight before heading home to knock it out with the local pool boy, the swarthy homeless gent, whose black fingernails and refuse-scented beard are mere accoutrements to a sub-human lifestyle – he doesn’t so much order a coffee as stand at the counter with a down-turned lip and a twitching eye and silently plead for someone to fill his “good for at least seventeen uses” styrofoam cup  for the grace and dignity of all humanity – plus the high school student who spent the semester toking three-dollar bong loads in his car during fifth period and staring at the ass of the scantily-clad sophomore girl sitting in front of him during English class, and thus, stayed up all night cramming for his “test-worth-fifty-percent-of-your-final-grade” and is now suffering the brick-eyed gaze of a old woman with the flu along with the hangover-like headache that accompanies long nights of studying as well as extensive nights of partying beneath overly-fluorescent rave lights and under the influence of acid-laced ecstasy, and who really just needs the coffee to wake the fuck up before his exam, and lest we not forget the elderly British woman with the cliche dental problem and resulting chronic halitosis, who decades ago decided to protest the entire Boston Tea Party rebellion and convert to coffee and crumpets during high tea, a notion which unwittingly pissed off her London-born sister and caused such a strong rift in the sibling relationship that the infuriated sibling now daily stations herself in London’s Times Square shouting nasty and traitorous epithets across the Atlantic while this Whistler-like sketch of a grandmother sips her Colombian Gold and thumbs through Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States, giggling rabidly.  The only thing better than a coffee aroma is the smell of cynicism in the morning.

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By ccxander

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