Coffee....Just Coffee

Greetings true believers. During our long and bumpy ride, it is inevitable that we would have to pull over and grab a cup of coffee. I am a Tim Horton's guy, myself... Dunkin Donuts or 7-Eleven on occasion. When there is nothing else around and I need coffee...I will enter the den of inequity that you all know as "Starbucks".

I wander into the local Starbucks the other day and consult the coffee "menu". As we all know, coffee doesn't need a menu, it needs a cup! The line is long enough to give me the required time to peruse said menu. This line is full of 13 year old kids. 13 year old kids have no reason to be drinking coffee in the first place, but that is not my gripe here. Since when do kids like coffee? They don't, they never have. But due to coffee flavored energy drinks, they feel the need to jump in my line and order something cool from the menu that costs as much as 3 packs of baseball cards (which kids of that age should be spending their money on).

I finally make it to the front of the line, and there is an 18 year old "Barista". In my world travels, I have learned that Barista is Italian for "bartender". Now, not only am I ordering my coffee from a menu, but from a bartender as well. So... I get this 18 year old bartender asking me for my coffee order. I ask for a large black coffee. This is the most simple of all orders. The same as me asking a real bartender for a draft beer. The kid looks behind him at the menu and asks where I see that, since he can't figure out how to ring it up. I tell him that I am ordering from the "hidden menu", and question his inability to understand the request by asking, "how long have you worked here? You don't know what a large black coffee costs?" After much discussion with his 19 year old boss, they come up with a charge of 4.19. Yes my fine feathered friends, four dollars for a large black coffee. I laugh, hand Brian Flanagan (go ahead, Google that one) a five dollar bill and am asked to wait at the end of the bar for my coffee.

Aside from the bleeding of my ears from listening to the conversation of 13 year olds hopped up on Mocha Frappaccinos, my wait is uneventful. I see all the frothy, fruity, and downright faggoty drinks being delivered all around me. What I don't see is my large, black, coffee. Do I lose my cool? Nay nay. I wait patiently for my coffee amidst the pain causing dialogue of "Generation LOL". After about 10 minutes, I approach Brian Flanagan once more to inquire about the status of my beverage. He tells me that my order must have been misplaced, and offers to make a fresh one for me, post haste. He says, "you wanted a Venti Dark...was that with or without room?" I didn't think that the coffee and I needed to spend the night together, nor did I think that the bartender had the connections to actually get us a room, so I correctly answered, without room. The question of "room", I later found out from a 14 year old scholar, is whether you need room left in the cup to add cream and sugar, or fill it all the way to the rim leaving no room in the cup for extras. I explained once again that I just wanted a large black coffee. Flanagan reminded me that "Venti" was indeed a large. I jumped his shit and informed him that "large" meant large before he was born, and would continue to mean "large" long after he was dead. Which, if he didn't give me my coffee in the next 2 minutes, would be very soon.

I am now being watched by the hoards of Starbucks whores surrounding me. I am not worried what they think because I am quite sure that they don't speak English. I finally get my LARGE BLACK COFFEE and an insincere apology for the delay. I walk out to the car and begin to drive away. I pick up my large black coffee and go to take a sip (for I have earned that, at least). Just as it hits the back of my throat, the smell of vanilla hits my olfactory nerve. My brain registers this smell, but does not associate it with LARGE BLACK COFFEE. I promptly pull the car over to the side of the road, roll down the window, and pour my Venti Vanilla Dark Without Room out of my Automobile Glass Port and onto the road as I drive six miles to the last bastion of coffee flavored coffee...Dunkin Donuts. I pull to the drive through, order a large black coffee. I am given a total of two dollars. I pay two bucks, get my coffee from a 50 year old woman, and know that my life has been saved. Coffee, my friends...the life blood of America...ordered, understood, delivered, enjoyed.

I am not telling any of you not to spend your hard earned American dollars at coffee houses full of Italian Bartenders. But if what you want is a steaming hot styrofoam cup of quality caffeine, look no further than your local Dunkin Donuts or gas station. These guys have been doing coffee right from day one, and you won't be surrounded by people that don't need to be drinking coffee anyway. Until next time, true believers....Stay Salty.

-Salty Dog

Insomniac Entertainment

Welcome back true believers! I have been away from my blog page for some time now, as I have had nothing to complain about. Nothing has moved me to put pen to paper... or mash on a keyboard UNTIL NOW! If you act in the next 20 minutes, cuz I can't do this all night, you will feel my pain.

Whether it be the insane pain in my knee, the medication I am taking for it, or just plain old, run of the mill insomnia...I can't sleep. This has been going on for a couple of weeks now, and it is driving me nuts. It is now 2:30 a.m., and as many of you may know...there is nothing on television at this hour. What else is there to do when you are wide awake at an hour like this? Reading just hurts my eyes, you can only do so much on the google machine to keep you interested...so I resort to the old stand by; the television.

Strolling through the channels, there is a myriad of crap to look at. Nothing that will keep your interest for more than 2 or 3 minutes, so I continue flipping. Then, out of nowhere...my savior! "Hey guys, it's Vince...you know me". Now, I know some guys named Vince. Vince was Tom Cruise's name in The Color of Money, Vince Lombardi, Vince Neil, Vincent Price (although I never heard him called Vince), this list could go on forever. Does it though? Nay Nay. This is your old friend Vince Shlomi. "Who in the blue hell is Vince Shlomi?", you may ask. Vince Shlomi is the guy that tells you, "it's made from a German fiber. Come on, you know the German's make great stuff." You've got it...it is the ShamWow guy! You know him..the guy that looks like he has Bell's Palsy and sounds like he is from the Bronx. He is actually from Haifa, Israel and his name isn't Vince..but that doesn't matter at 2:30 in the morning, does it?

Is our buddy Not Vince selling me the wonderful ShamWow? Nay Nay. He is offering me the next great invention (this time not from Germany) the Slap Chop! What in the hell is that? Well..The Slap Chop is a manual chopper machine that works when you slap the plunger part. Every slap triggers the 3 blades below to chop and cut the food. The more you slap the Slap Chop, the finer the food gets. Today you can get the Slap Chop and Graty for just $19.95 plus $7.95 shipping and handling. But that's not all! You'll also get a 2nd Slap Chop and Graty set for FREE, just pay $7.95 to cover the shipping and handling fee! The Graty for cheese comes with 2 blades, fine and coarse. Place any kind of cheese in the container, turn and press the black top twister and the cheese comes right out for omelets, salads and pasta. I plan to challenge this claim of "any kind of cheese"..I think I will use Cottage Cheese. Maybe Ricotta.

How in the hell have you lived without this wonderful device? Oh yeah, because we have this thing called technology! We make things smaller, faster, less dependent on human interaction as possible. Imagine if you will...Vince selling you a television that doesn't need a remote control. One that comes with a dial on the front that, when turned, would tune in a different program! Or the No Misdial Telephone. Each number has a hole where you can stick your finger and rotate it. That way you were sure which number you were dialing each step of the way. No chance at pushing a 5 instead of an 8, or a 4 instead of a 7. Put your finger in the hole..and away you go!

While infomercials do indeed give an insomniac something to watch, I find myself so pissed off at 1. the poor quality of the commercial. 2. the sheer hatred of the pitch man. 3. the stupidity of the product itself. So pissed off that I CAN'T sleep, even if I wanted to. I would like to find Vince and club him like a baby seal. Okay, enough about that..I am off to surf more channels in hopes of finding Ron Popiel because I am kind of hungry. Maybe I will run into Avril Lavigne or Jessica Simpson along the way talking about the acne they had before they found ProActiv and it made them famous. Until next time ladies and gents...Stay Salty!