Tales in Hot Pink is a weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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Coffee
How bad could it be? People all over the world make it a day without coffee, I thought, as I slicked after shave through my hair and patted styling gel on my face. You don't need coffee to survive. I slid into my pants. I noticed some damp spots peppering my legs. I leaned in for a closer look. I realized I had forgotten to dry myself coming out of the shower. It wasn't too bad, though. If I got any flack from the people at work, I'd tell them it was raining. I lie to them all the time anyway. What is coffee, really, but a cup of stained water? If you turned on the tap, and water came out an opaque shade of black, no way in hell would you drink it. And you probably wouldn't even consider adding cream and sugar to it. No sir. Water like that would go right down the drain. And the idea of paying five dollars for it at Starbucks? It would be like paying someone to use your backyard as a nuclear waste dump. I paused in the hallway, wondering why I was feeling so chafed. I considered the problem for a minute or two, puzzling over my discomfort. After a minute or two, I identified the problem, and then went back to the bedroom to put on underpants. Who says you need to rely on a drink to function? That can't be healthy. It's like alcoholism or drug addiction. No substance abuse for me, thank you very much. I paused in the hallway again, realizing the chafing problem was still in effect. I wondered what I'd done wrong. Then it hit me. The underwear goes on under the pants. Hence the name: Under Wear. I went back to the bedroom. First you're brewing up a cup on Sunday, next it's a cup every day, then it's a pot, and next thing you know you're shooting black tar heroin and cleaning windshields with a dirty rag. I'm already dangerously close to the rag thing, I don't need to make the problem worse with a liquid drug dependency. There was one frozen bagel left in the freezer. I took it out and went to the toaster oven. It's better that it happened now. While I can still fix things. I might just quit coffee altogether. That's not unheard of. People quit things all the time. Sometimes more than once. Was that the smell of plastic burning? The frozen bagel was on the counter in front of me. The empty bag was cooking in the toaster oven. A lot of people drink tea. Sure, they're usually pretty weird, and not the kind of people you'd want in your house, but still…there was an alternative. I gave up on breakfast and wandered downstairs to the car. I backed out of the garage. I paused in the driveway for a minute, making a mental note that, in the future, after I replaced the garage door, I would open it before backing out of the garage. Satisfied that I'd remember, I rolled the car over the mailbox at the end of the driveway and I was on my way. I thought about all the money I'd save. I'm a coffee snob, at least I used to be…I used to grind my own beans, used to order from specialty dealers for Guatemalan, Hawaiian, and Peruvian blends, used to maintain expensive machinery and equipment for the perfect cup of Mocha Java…it gets expensive. Now I could use the money on something more important. Like food. Macaroni and cheese was getting a little old. I arrived at work unscathed and proudly made my way to my office. The employees were gathered at the window overlooking the parking lot. "What's up?" I asked, approaching the throng. "We were just watching you come in," Don explained. "Yeah?" I asked. "Were you in reverse the whole way here?" I tried to remember. "I guess so," I realized. "I was wondering why everyone was honking at me." "And is that a mailbox in your back fender?" he asked. I looked over his shoulder at my battered car in the lot. "Any coffee made?" I asked. |
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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