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It's Sunday morning and that usually means one key thing with me: unlimited coffee. Not that I drink a lot of coffee -- I don't. I'll drink a couple cups, but half goes cold before I'm done, so it requires refill. This is a luxury I do not have at work.
I mean, what kind of self-absorbed bastard takes the last cup of coffee without making a fresh pot? I thought there was an unwritten rule among office coffee drinkers – don’t leave less than a decent-sized cup in the pot without making a fresh pot. Yet I have to deal with the shmucks that think it’s OK to stroll into the kitchen, empty a whole pot into their Starbucks coffee vat, and dart back out as though having coffee provided for them is their God-given right.
I have my eye on a couple of the accounting folk who obviously have misconceptions about their working environment. There are one or two (and I’m not naming names here) that swoop in and grab the last cup, and then flee, leaving behind nothing but coffee splotches, a cloud of non-dairy creamer dust and about enough coffee to fill a shot glass. And she magically appears, looking like a human water balloon in clothing that’s supposed to fit loosely on someone – not her – with her coffee and cream skin straining against taught poly-blends, allowing a sometimes unfortunate elliptical view of a crumb-laden undershirt peering out between open near-bursting seams, held fast only by the unearthly gumption of supernaturally strong buttons.
Oh, yes: she’s the first in line with her lurking, quiet-and-comfortable-though-horribly-unstylish rubber-soled shoes of unnamable Play-Doh color, to make some brilliant, pithy comment like, "Fresh pot," or, “Hi Brian. Making coffee, heh-heh?”
Yes, I’m making coffee you oversized lurker bitch. You know why? Because low-brow, Philistine bastards like you tend to bump their way through life without a hint of regard for those around them. Bump-bump you go – stumbling through your egocentric existence until another selfish fuck with a truck brings it to a mercifully quick close in the middle of Self-Center Street. Then you float over your bloated corpse at your funeral – for which you stuck the only remaining moron that cared about you with the bill – and you float... all floaty and incredibly unusually light, thinking, “Why is there no one here? Why didn’t anyone come to my funeral… boo-hoo… Why didn’t people like me… sob-sob…?” It’s because you never made a fresh pot, bitch. It’s because taking the last cup was your way of life. So you think about that while you freeze in hell in the blackened indifference of God and those you thought HAD to love you, you bungling ignoramous, and,
“Yes. It’s a fresh pot.”
I mean, what kind of self-absorbed bastard takes the last cup of coffee without making a fresh pot? I thought there was an unwritten rule among office coffee drinkers – don’t leave less than a decent-sized cup in the pot without making a fresh pot. Yet I have to deal with the shmucks that think it’s OK to stroll into the kitchen, empty a whole pot into their Starbucks coffee vat, and dart back out as though having coffee provided for them is their God-given right.
I have my eye on a couple of the accounting folk who obviously have misconceptions about their working environment. There are one or two (and I’m not naming names here) that swoop in and grab the last cup, and then flee, leaving behind nothing but coffee splotches, a cloud of non-dairy creamer dust and about enough coffee to fill a shot glass. And she magically appears, looking like a human water balloon in clothing that’s supposed to fit loosely on someone – not her – with her coffee and cream skin straining against taught poly-blends, allowing a sometimes unfortunate elliptical view of a crumb-laden undershirt peering out between open near-bursting seams, held fast only by the unearthly gumption of supernaturally strong buttons.
Oh, yes: she’s the first in line with her lurking, quiet-and-comfortable-though-horribly-unstylish rubber-soled shoes of unnamable Play-Doh color, to make some brilliant, pithy comment like, "Fresh pot," or, “Hi Brian. Making coffee, heh-heh?”
Yes, I’m making coffee you oversized lurker bitch. You know why? Because low-brow, Philistine bastards like you tend to bump their way through life without a hint of regard for those around them. Bump-bump you go – stumbling through your egocentric existence until another selfish fuck with a truck brings it to a mercifully quick close in the middle of Self-Center Street. Then you float over your bloated corpse at your funeral – for which you stuck the only remaining moron that cared about you with the bill – and you float... all floaty and incredibly unusually light, thinking, “Why is there no one here? Why didn’t anyone come to my funeral… boo-hoo… Why didn’t people like me… sob-sob…?” It’s because you never made a fresh pot, bitch. It’s because taking the last cup was your way of life. So you think about that while you freeze in hell in the blackened indifference of God and those you thought HAD to love you, you bungling ignoramous, and,
“Yes. It’s a fresh pot.”
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IMAGE COURTESY OF http://www.goobeetsa.com/. CHECK HIM OUT ON BLOGSPOT, TOO -- ANOTHER TWISTED BRIAN!
