What the Fuckery Friday: Coffee
“What puts the cream in your coffee?” you ask.
“Who might be the better question,” says I.
If it weren’t for cream and lashings of sugar (or sugar substitute in the event of emergency, which is every single day), I wouldn’t roll out of bed, fresh as a paisley with stars in my eyes and fire in my heart. Those valves sometimes stall and lurch, but pay no mind to the magician behind the aorta. It’s all electric pulses and beams from foreign governments, not the whimsical fancy of a feckless god playing pool and using you as the cue ball. The blue chalk can choke your pulmonary vesicles if you’re not careful, so don’t inhale. Never inhale. We saw where that got Bill Clinton.
Another of those Bills (there are ever so many) was the one who went after Beatrix Kiddo. A damn shame, too, because that Beatrix made a lovely bride, reptilian codename and all. You can bet your sweet ass she had plenty of coffee on hand when she went after the Crazy 88s. A quintuple shot. It was the music that moved her. You could tell Tomoyasu Hotei got off on some major feelings when they wrote the tune.
If I were a gangster, my name would be Kona-D. D for “dangerous.” Kona coffee is smooth like butter, but you might get the shits if you drink too much. That’s what my gangster specialty would be. Giving people the shits. Many argue I do that already. I’ve been sent the hospital bills for late-term colonoscopies to prove it. The point is, Kona-D would be a righteous gangster with a red and black pinstripe suit, pimp hat, and Band-Aids on each middle finger.
Fingers are made for probing, which happens a hell of a lot more than one might expect when Kona coffee is involved. Might have something to do with that badass Pele surfing the slopes of Kīlauea in search of Halema’uma’u crater. Big fucking hole that one made. The cleaning crew had a righteous mess on their hands, but nobody said a word about it. They didn’t want Pele bringing any more shit down on them. How much you wanna bet she shows up at the capitol tomorrow wearing a pinstripe suit, toting a mug of Kona coffee as big a blue whale’s heart? I predict shit will go down when she targets her wrath on those asshole Asian palm civet farmers, toting their kopi luwak coffee shit-beans. Anything to make a fucking yuan.
Kona-D wouldn’t have none of that shit. Vegetarian coffee for all, motherfuckers! Rumor has it you can make a vicious vegan chocolate cake with strongly brewed coffee, and I stand by it. Glob some peanut butter cream cheese frosting on it if you like it leaded. The cows probably won’t mind. I imagine their tits hurt if you neglect them too long, though I wouldn’t want to touch those hairy bags. Every time I drive by the pasture, a herd of cud-chomping bitches follows me with their eyes like they’re plotting to steal my car.
I triple-heifer-dare you, vache.