Okay, now, look. Once again I’m forced to reveal a
little more of me in order to make a point. I have no on to blame but myself for this. I
don’t have to tell you people anything about my real life, an area my
parole officer suggests I keep as private as possible. Just because I’m
out of amusing fictional anecdotes doesn’t mean I have to ‘open up’. I’m
driven by a pathetic need for approval, and look where it’s brought me.
Sharing. I take it back. I do blame you.
I work at a Museum. Which museum is totally none of your
business and it doesn’t matter. I’m not risking some maladjusted internet bastard
showing up at the front desk asking for me. When I start getting paid
for this I’ll give some thought to taking on the odd stalker, not
before. Like any of you care enough to stalk me.
Recently my employer showed ‘Seattle’s Best’ the door
and brought in ‘Starbucks’ as the cafeteria coffee vendor, a move not unlike asking
your Personal Care Provider for a referral for a reliable proctologist
with a really, really, long right arm. I won’t get into that here. This
column isn’t about how our children will live in a world where nations
have been replaced by corporations and die as useless cannon fodder in a
war between PepsiCo and Disney, a Late Grande clutched in their trembling, blood streaked hand, "Careful! The
beverage you are about to enjoy is extremely hot!" the last words they’ll ever see. That’s not
what this column is about.
It’s about the Teens I stood behind while waiting in
line at the Museum Starbucks. I, keep in mind, I was on my coffee break. They were here for
a field trip from which they were taking a half hour our so as each of
them made the poor woman behind the counter hand craft half caff
moccacinos and double shot espressos with just a dollop of steamed milk
in the center of the cup, the CENTER I said! Gangly ass middle schoolers
in pants purchased when a small, family owned traveling circus went
belly up and had to sell their Big Top, hard at work on Baby’s First
Beard, complaining that they don’t have French Vanilla, "French"
Vanilla, like the word "French" in this context has any meaning whatsoever, as
if adding the word "French" meant that this vanilla was in some way different from the chemical powder used to
make things taste just ‘vanilla’! Making me waste my whole damn break contemplating which
of the seven signs of the apocalypse their particular pattern of
infected piercings represent!
I mean, yes, by putting in a Starbucks directly across
from our humongous gift shop just a hop skip and a jump away from our giant
screen Omni Max, in spitting distance from our Laser shows, I suppose
we’re somewhat to blame for creating the impression that we’re
basically a Museum themed Mall, but Dawson isn’t here on his own time, he’s on a
fieldtrip! From School! And I want my coffee! Mine takes-ten-seconds,
open-the spigot-over-the-cup coffee! I don’t want to consider what if
any meaning the scabby, runic tattoo creeping out of his collar and into
the stubbly, pimpled fringes of his bizarre and possibly intentional
hairstyle might have, I want my coffee!
And where are the chaperones? The required 1 to 10 ratio
of chaperones? Right behind me! Limbering their jaws so they won’t pull a muscle while
whining about the absence of fresh shaved Giradello chocolate! Speculating on the
fat content in a slice of the Tiramisu! A two minute walk and they could see and touch an actual Woolly
Mammoth Tusk, but they’d rather penetrate the mystery of why such a tiny box of dark
chocolate covered blueberries costs almost three dollars! I just want my
Woolly Mammoth 5000:
It teaches you about history while it makes you coffee!
Look, I don’t want to be a spoilsport, I want their
field trip to be fun, a break from the routine, but the bottom line is their time here
should be spent in learning. And bellow that bottom line? In huge, bold
type? THEY SHOULD NOT BE STANDING IN FRONT OF ME MAKING PRISSY, COMPLICATED ORDERS AND PREVENTING ME FROM
GETTING MY COFFEE!! BECAUSE I’VE GIVEN UP A HELL OF A LOT IN MY LIFE and
NEWSFLASH!! NEWS FUH-LASH!!! SPEEDY ACCESS TO CAFFEINE IS JUST ABOUT ALL I’VE GOT LEFT!
Because honestly, they’re not my kids and if they learn nothing in their
entire lives I couldn’t give what’s known by scientists as ‘a little tin
crap’. Hollow ‘em out, fill ‘em up with steamin’ hot Java, and let ‘em
be my own personal anthropic coffee jug, then I’d be fine with them
standing in front of me. ‘Cause right now? I’m getting a little bit of a
#1: Max Burbank is currently working on converting some
of these kids into hollowed-out coffee jugs. It's a messy job,
but somebody's gotta do it.