Need Advice? No. Oh the Fuck Well

I'm mediocre to awful at most things I do. (If you don't believe me I will post a video of myself dancing or trying to do ninth-grade algebra.) But for all the things that I suck at, I have been given a gift. I am the advice goddess. Oh yeah. You heard me.  

However, I would suggest you don't come to me looking for any real life advice.

Example: How do I get a job after college?

Answer: I have no fucking clue. I decided to make coffee and write a blog with my degree. 

But if you're looking for advice on the good stuff (love/sex/relationships/howtodoblowoffahooker) you've come to the right place. So, I decided to parlay my gift for tawdry advice into a blog segment. I will (anonymously) answer questions sent to my email:  notreallyabarista@gmail.com or my twitter: @AllieOopsie every Thursday.

I mean if Dr. Phil can dole out weight-loss advice, because he took a group-aerobics class at the YMCA one time. I figure I can tell people how to give a blowie, because I let random boys over-the-sweater grope me in middle school.

Hobbits, Gangsters and a Ceiling Vote

Everyday is a struggle for me. I wake up in the morning, turn on the news, and try to stop giving a damn about politics. It doesn't work. I find myself screaming and throwing my Kashi at the morning news.

Recently, it's been over the topic of the debt ceiling. It's been a rough couple weeks watching many of the Freshman 87-- some which are Tea Party nutters-- make a blood-brother oath to say no to any debt ceiling increase, no matter the terms.

Now normally I like oaths among far-right fucktards, because typically they involve Kool-Aid and ritual suicide, but this has yet to happen, much to my dismay. In fact, it seems many of these Congress members are gaining strength, bent on a mission to protect some ideal.

The Wall Street Journal likened it to the hobbits on their quest to defeat Mordor. 

But simliar to how politics pulls me in despite my resistance, these times remind me of Godfather, albeit the very shitty Godfather III. Except we aren't dealing with the mafia, just an unreasonable clan of people willing to do whatever it takes to increase their capital and protect their livelihood. Oh wait...

If you think that I'm being too tough on the 'No Gang', by blatantly comparing them to mobsters, then I'm sorry. I mean, it's not like they opened their Tuesday morning meeting by watching clips from 'The Town' or anything. Oh wait...

I'll leave you guys with the aforementioned clip from 'The Town.' See if you don't want to fuck some people's lives up after watching it. I'm going to go watch 'Keeping up with the Kardashians' and try to forget I give a damn about any of this.

Dan Savage, I Love You

I have a full-on crush on sex-columnist Dan Savage. Even though our love is unrequited-- since he likes the fellas and has no fucking clue who I am-- I still plan on pimping out every amazing thing he does like I'm getting 10 percent. Enjoy Mr. Savage's 'Funny or Die' video.

Dan Savage's New Threat to Rick Santorum from Dan Savage

Dog Found; Woman Still Missing

As I've mentioned before, I went to school to be a journalist. I realized a little late in the game that they prefer you not refer to Republicans as "super-retarded closet cases," and that was a deal-breaker.

But I decided to finish my degree, and therefore had to take on a few internships. Currently, I am a news intern at an NPR-affiliate in Florida. As an intern, majority of my time is spent re-writing AP stories, and occasionally I come across one so ridiculous I need to share. Enjoy.


AP-FL--Missing Woman-Police Dog,96
Police dog goes missing while searching for woman

 Eds: APNewsNow.
     PORT ORANGE, Fla. (AP) - Officials say a police dog that went
missing while searching for a central Florida woman has been found.
     The German shepherd, named Rex, broke away from his lead Tuesday
afternoon while looking for 43-year-old Toni M. Contarino.
     Police say Contarino had left work in a "depressed state" on
Tuesday and was reported missing after leaving her cell phone and
other items at her home.
     The police dog was found overnight. Officials believe he may
have been chasing after wildlife in the area.
     Anyone with information about Contarino should call the Port
Orange Police Department at 386-756-7400.
    
     ---
     Information from: Orlando Sentinel,
http://www.orlandosentinel.com

    
     (Copyright 2011 by The Associated Press.  All Rights Reserved.)
    
 AP-NY-07-27-11 0554EDT

Creepy Coffee Man Rides Again

Lately, I've been blogging about a lot of blah, blah, blah bullshit, so I decided to get back to my roots. Making fun of people. You can thank me later.

I've referenced one extra-creepy son of a bitch in a previous post, but he's taken his possible serial killer game up a notch, so he gets a sequel.

Creepy Coffee Man, as I mentioned earlier, kills people. (I'm at least 96 percent certain.) He's more than awkward and vagina-deprived, he has a look in his eyes that suggests he goes home and does this. And as of lately, he been rather smitten with our favorite little racist.

He stalks her. Following her outside, lighting her Newport, laughing at her tales of clubbing and shopping at Wet Seal, all the while imagining what her face look like on his nightstand.

Now a part of me wants to give this man some chloroform, an alibi and call it a day. I mean, this bitch has made my work environment less than desirable, with all her spray-tan fumes and Ke$ha glitter, but then my stupid fucking conscience gets the best of me, and I realize it's wrong to let Creepy Coffee Man put her in his freezer. Although, I am open to being convinced otherwise.

But until then, me and the other baristas keep an eye on him, which he is well aware of.

“Why are they being so nosy?” he asks her. “Why don't they trust me with you?”

“I don't know,” she says, giggling and flipping her hair. She then rolls her shirt up, exposing her midriff, and asks him how he likes her new bellybutton ring.

And then I can't help but think, “Ah, fuck it," and begin my Google search for chloroform.

Why Do You Blog?

On Blogger Buzz the following question was posed: Why do you blog? As I read through the chosen answers, I noticed something. People take this SERIOUSLY. And no I don't mean, “I heard people can make some money from this shit” seriously. I mean...

“Main reason: creative writing outlet. Aux reasons: counteract stereotypes/preconceived ideas abt Pakistan, Pakistanis, & Islam :)” (@desigurrl)

“I started blogging after a near death experience to create a legacy for my three young children.” (@FrillyHills)

Those were just a couple of the highlighted reasons, and I feel bad for even including them on a blog most people find while looking for barista porn. I mean, someone created a blog after they almost died. I created a blog because I serve coffee to people who wear dirty wifebeaters and believe that a sick mullet will get you pussy.

But I guess for every person who blogs in hopes to improve the world, there has to be someone who blogs because they weren't hugged enough as a kid.

So @Blogger Buzz, I thought I'd answer your question. I blog because people laugh when I tell them I majored in print journalism. I blog because I work customer service and have to smile for 10 hours a day. But most importantly, I blog because I heard people can make some money from this shit.

The Hangover 3

I keep hearing that to be a successful blogger you have to constantly provide your readers with new material. But, to be honest, I'm still pretty hungover and that just seems like more work than I'm looking for today. So here's some cats doing stuff on YouTube. You people like this shit, right?

The Dirty South

I keep getting told by rappers that I live in the dirty south. And by "dirty" I think they mean the "slightly bigoted and still pretty pissed about the Civil War" south.  Although, for the most part the people who attend KKK rallies and believe the term "colored" is politically correct can be avoided. That is until one of these people takes off their "Mel Gibson was Right" t-shirt and sneaks their way into your life.

The other day, a young lady that I have lovingly spoke about in a previous post decided to share some of her opinions on race. Long story short, she's likes to thank the Lord every day that he made her "a white," which makes absolutely no sense because she has made it her life mission to look like Snooki.

Normally, I know how to respond when people say things I don't agree with.

"I think Michele Bachmann will make a great president."
 Yep, and her closet-case husband will be the best first lady ever.


Something like that. However, I was so stunned by her brazen confession that I didn't say anything. I left work angry with myself. I wanted to go back in there and tell her that I was not in her white-trash honkey club. I wanted to tell her that I would literally dry hump Taye Diggs' bald head if given the opportunity.

But I didn't. Instead, I told my boss and she wrote her up and explained that if anything else was ever said she would be fired. Bosslady recommended that we teach this 19-year-old twat a new way of thinking.

So, I open the question to some of my followers. Can someone be taught tolerance? If this orange-faced idiot is exposed to the idea of equality, will she eventually realize that her previous thoughts were wrong? Can this bronzer-dipped lady douche be rehabilitated?

And if not... should I beat her with a pillowcase full of dimes or nickels?

No Shirt. No Shoes. No Silverware.

Sometimes I worry that you guys don't understand how backwoods the town I work in is. As an accomplished writer on Blogger, I know that the reader's level of belief is extremely important when it comes to crafting a story.  So, just to make sure there is no doubt about the ridiculousness of this place, I decided to bring in an outside source.

Below is a Facebook status from a co-worker and resident of aforementioned town.

That's All.

Babies, Babies, Everywhere

Last week I had to take a short break from sharing my tales of Barista-ing to ensure that I will never give birth vaginally. Yep, my best friend had a baby.

I don't believe anyone can fully be prepared for what happens when a little person comes into the world. It's something like this. And while I like to think that I am a badass motherfucker (or a BAMF as you crazy kids are calling it these days) giving birth is possibly the most gangster thing anyone can do. Suck on that, Chris Brown.

In more baby news, my brother and his child-bride are also knocked up. This instance makes me a little more nervous. One, because I'm afraid of what childbirth will do to my brother's 12-year-old baby mama. Two, because my families genes will be passed down (I promise I will tell you guys about them when I think you can handle it).

However, I can't say that the idea of being an aunt isn't exciting. I mean, I'm going to be able to teach this little bastard to string together expletives like none other.

"Fuck you, you whoreface supercunt. I don't want to eat broccoli." -Max, Jr. Age 4

Aww, my heart swells with pride at the thought.

Now, I'm off to try and stab my ovaries with a metal clothes-hanger just in case this shit is contagious.

America's Got Talent: Barista Edition

I have decided to add a new segment to this blog that features barista talent. I hope this will prove that baristas are more than just skilled coffee makers, they are gifted human beings. Now, watch as Crystal shoves her fist in her mouth.

I Don't Hate My Job, Per Se

Most of the time I use this blog as an outlet to vent about the trials of customer service. In fact, it was born from a frustration that comes when people wearing sleeveless "Git-R-Done" t-shirts ask if you are retarded.

Although, I've been thinking lately (since I learned my boss found my blog) that I might be giving a bad impression. You might have been led to believe that I hate my job, which couldn't be further from the truth. I know my nearly-incoherent, anger-fueled ramblings rate on the batshit-crazy Richter scale right underneath Tea-Party member, but to be honest, I've been emotionally unstable long before I learned to make a dry cappuccino (I'll tell you guys about my parents later).

So I decided to combat this negative perception by listing a few reasons why I love my job.

1. Health Insurance, Bitches! I get coverage for part-time work and with my love of NyQuil and deep-rooted childhood issues, it won't be long before I need some Lohan-style rehab.
2. My company makes it a point to embrace diversity in every form. And you know what that means... Yep, I get to work with a drag queen.
3. A lot of my customers are lovely, kind people, who I love to interact with. They will roll their eyes with me when one of the "git-r-done guys" questions my competency.
4. Free Coffee. Nothing funny. Just awesome.
5. Material. This shit writes itself.

Now, see guys I don't hate my job. It's a wonderful place. And if my boss is reading this, I want to let you know I respect you're authority and will stop calling people fucktards while they are in ear shot.

WARNING: This Post You're About to Enjoy is Extremely Hot

Today I was reviewing some of my blogs stats  (you know, how many views I've gotten, where they came from, and if any of those people are convicted child molesters) I noticed an option to see what search words people most often used when they stumbled upon my little blog. Wanna know what they were?

Let's see: HORNY SEMI NUDE BARISTAS. PLAYBOY BARISTA. HORNY BARISTAS. BAD PLAYBOY GIRLS HORNY.

So it seems people are coming to my blog looking for porn, and I can't help but think "Damn, they must be disappointed." I mean, I've been told that I swear like a $2 whore, however that accusation doesn't really represent any of my day to day activities.

I almost feel bad. I know I get super pissed when I'm googling ways to poison customers and instead I get sent poison control. So I can only imagine how these presumably middle-aged, world-of-warcraft playing coffee fetishists feel when instead of finding tawdry blog posts about horny, playboy playmate baristas they find me bitching about out-of-towners or the regular who always forgets to flush the toilet.

I decided that since I'm not really a barista, I would do all these creepy bastards a favor and be a pornographer. So for today only call me Allie Flint.

You Are Welcome.