At The Coffee Shop

“I’d like to have some coffee please,” I told the barista at the coffee shop I usually frequent.

“Certainly,” said the barista. “We have a splendid amount of choices. Do you fancy hot coffee, iced coffee or a frappucinno?”

“Erm,” I replied, taken aback at the number of choices. “Well, since it’s raining real hard outside and it’s so cold my nipples can cut through glass right now, I’ll probably go for the hot coffee.”

“Great choice!” he answered, with the standard fake enthusiasm that seems to be the de facto thing among baristas and telemarketers. “Now sir, if you look at the menu, the ‘Hot Coffee’ submenu has ten different sub-submenus with twenty items under each sub-submenu, so that you can choose one coffee brew tailored specifically for your taste–”

“Wait, wait. I just want a mug of regular, plain old coffee–”

“Ah yes sir, but, remember, you are special. You do not deserve to get plain old regular coffee. You deserve to spend a hundred bucks or more for an overpriced mug of coffee that you will nurse for an hour or two because you paid a hell lot for it, while you sit in our elegantly snazzy coffee shop, reading Paolo Coelho, which makes you look like a douchebag. Twice over. Remember sir, you are special.”

Doucebag Barista

At this point, I was getting quite upset. I could feel my blood pulsing on my temples, and my hands were starting to shake vigorously.

“I. Don’t. Care. Just. Give. Me. A. Fucking. Mug. Of. Coffee.”

I could see that the barista’s grin was suddenly becoming quite forced. He was giving me that constipated look, which was quite unnerving for me.

“Sir, we have like ten million coffee varieties in our menu. You have to choose. Please.”

“WHY THE HELL DO I HAVE TO CHOOSE?! WHY, BACK IN MY DAY, WE DIDN’T HAVE THESE TRENDY COFFEE SHOPS! WE’D HAVE TO WAIT FOR DAYS IN THE JUNGLE FOR WILD CATS TO SHIT OUT THE BEANS THEY DIGESTED AND THEN WE’D CLEAN THE BEANS OUT AND GRIND THEM AND BOIL THEM UP AND WE’D HAVE CAT SHIT COFFEE!”

I CAN HAS COFFEEMAKER?

“Sir, calm down–”

“No! You just made me upset! And do you know what happens when I become upset?!”

“Sir–”

“I say penis! A LOT! In fact I feel like screaming–”

“–there’s no need to–”

“PENIS!”

“–please sir, you’re disturbing–”

“PENIS!”

“–if you want to, I can–”

“PENIS! PENIS! PENIIIIIIIIIIS!”

“–sir, you’re scaring the Koreans at the table on the right–”

“KOREAN PENIS!”

At this point the Koreans at the next table were visually horrified. They stood up and did various Tae Kwan Do stances, and muttering in Koreanese about destroying “this man who has the gall to make fun of our sacred three-inchers.”

I tried to reason with them. I told them that I’m not looking for any trouble, I just wanted to buy coffee.

Suddenly a Korean came out of nowhere and did a Vulcan Nerve Pinch on me.

I then lose consciousness.

***

I woke up later in Pansol, Laguna, drenched in the rain, various body parts aching (not orifices, I must clarify) and with twenty missed calls on my phone. Good thing those wild forest cats found me and nursed me to health. Also, they had a mug of cat shit coffee already prepared for me when I woke up.

Turns out that I’ve been missing for two days already and that I’ve been dumped for dead. And I would’ve been as good as dead too, if a car being driven by Maria Ozawa didn’t pass by and offered me a ride back home and we made out on the way despite my near death experience (just play along please :( ).

When I got home, I found out that the blogosphere and Twitter was already abuzz with news of me missing, but that’s another story. I heard Noelle was already prepared to write my obituary on her blog so that she’d benefit from my link juice (not my awesome Ade Juice. Sigh.)

Anyway, when I heard that people actually thought I was dead, it made me so upset. In fact, as I’m writing this entry I’m feeling much, much upset that I feel like saying peni—