There are a few rules I live my life by: a balanced diet is a slice of pizza in each hand, my level of sarcasm depends on your level of stupidity, and if you want to dance with the devil, you don’t get to pick the tune. But there’s one bit of t-shirt wisdom above all else that everyone around me needs to abide by: Don’t talk to me until I’ve screamed at the teenager making my coffee.
I know it’s cliche, but I just can’t start my day until I’ve hurled a barrage of insults at a sixteen-year old until they’ve shed enough tears to fill a coffee cup — and it better be a fuckin’ large cup too, because we don’t hablo no ‘Grande’ here in the U.S. of A.
There’s just something that brings me joy about that first whiff of attitude from the barista that gives me the greenlight to unload on them. This is a stand your coffee grounds state so go ahead, punk: make my latte. I don’t give a damn if you’re my teenage daughter’s best friend, how hard is it to make a three and a quarter shot, half-caff, non-fat, eight-pump caramel whip macchiato with extra foam, but only on the right side of the cup, and the gentlest angel’s fart of cinnamon on top?
I work hard and I play hard, but if there’s one thing I don’t play with it’s my coffee. If you’re too dumb to read that my shirt clearly says ‘Warning: My Sense of Humor Might Hurt Your Feelings’, well that’s your fault that you can’t tell the difference between mean and ‘spicy nice’.
And Lord help you if you think you can turn that little screen around and ask for a tip. You disrespect me in front of this long line of people waiting for me to teach you a lesson so they can order their coffee, and you want a tip? You’re lucky I don’t shove the tip of that steam wand up your butt and burn the sass out of your narrow ass. Mess with me you get the horns, mess with my coffee and you get the whole damn bull, sweetie.
Well thanks to that snot-nosed punk my day is officially ruined, so somebody better call ‘wine-one-one’ because it’s feeling like wine o’clock already. And I swear to God, that lazy bartender at Applebee’s better hustle her pregnant ass off that stool because if I’m late for my appointment with Dr. Rosé after the day I’ve had I’m going to hit that bitch with my Cybertruck.