Tuesday, March 27, 2012

100 Posts and Rambling

100 posts.

This will be my 100th post.

And like Marcus Bachmann when faced with vaginal intercourse, I cannot perform.

I've been racking my brain trying to think of a way to celebrate this big, round blog-posting number, but alas, I was left staring at a blank screen wondering if the woman from "19 Kids and Counting" delivered each one of those little munchkins vaginally.

Then I was thinking that if she did, it is a miracle the baby juice can even stay in that black-hole long enough to bring another one of her miracles into this world.

Then I was thinking, one of those kids has be gay. It's just numbers.

I was also thinking, one of those kids will probably end up being a serial killer. Still, it's just numbers.

Then I turned off TLC and decided to never have children.

I wish I had something more though. Words that could fully express my gratitude that even one person decided to read my internet ramblings. Especially, because I think you guys are smart and funny, and I would love to buy you all drinks and touch you inappropriately once the alcohol took hold.

So if any of you guys are ever in Northeast Florida...

Anyways, thank you to everyone who has ever read I'm Not Really a Barista. I think you are all incredible.

Even if a couple of you are probably serial killers. Once again, it's just numbers.

No big deal.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

A Marital Disagreement

For those of you that don't know, I work in a little town known as Bumfuck Eygpt. Now I know it may seem strange that BFE would have a $4 latte-selling coffee shop, and it is. But for the most part, the small-town folk who inhabit this place have grown accustomed to us. They come in, mispronounce drink names, bitch about the price of coffee, and ultimately come back again the next day to repeat the process.

However, this acceptance came with a price. When the shop opened nearly five years, residents were outraged.

“You mean to tell me that these pinko, commie, tree-hugging, atheist sons-a-bitches, are gonna come into my town and gay up all our kids with their fancy-pants drinks. Well, fuck you.”

That was basically the headline of the local paper the day our store opened.

Most of these people didn't want anything to do with a company (that shall not be named) known for yuppie servitude and leftish leanings, but over time people forgot and considered us to be one of their own.

That was until last Saturday.

A young man stood at the entrance of our store with a sign that read “This Company Supports Gay Marriage. Do You?”

The answer, was a resounding NO.

Luckily I was not there, because I would probably really not be a barista if I had been.

But the next day I was met with this.

This man forfeited his rewards card that had $20 on it. He explained not so subtly that he did not agree with the company's stance on gay marriage and for that reason he would no longer be a patron. He felt that this was something worth standing up for.

Now, normally, this wouldn't be an issue. But I knew this man. He came in every day. He met me with a smile and kindness. I cared how his day was. I asked about his family. I watched his baby turn into a toddler. I watched that toddler turn into a rambunctious boy. I handed him his coffee and his child a luke-warm hot chocolate that I pinky-promised was coffee just like his daddy's.

I liked him. I liked him as more than just a customer. I liked him as a person.

And I felt like I had been tricked into thinking that this person believed the same things as me. That because he came into our store every day and shared conversation with me, he wasn't like so many others.

“Fuck him,” I said to my manager.

She frowned and said that we didn't know the situation.

“It doesn't matter,” I said. “No situation would make his behavior acceptable.”

“It's just how some people are around here,” she countered.

And she was right. I had overlooked this town's initial distaste for us. I had assumed that their presence in our store meant that they were on our side.

My manager made sure I knew that I was not allowed to say anything on the matter to customers if this situation were to happen again.

I'm not sure if the young man with the controversial sign will come back, but if he does I will not say anything.

 I will stand next to him with a sign that says, “YES”.

Because our dissatisfied customer was right, some things are worth standing up for.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Super Tuesday. Super Sick. Dammit.

It's Super Tuesday, which for a blogger than mainly talks about politics and blowjobs is like the Superbowl.

But I'm sick.

I'm assuming I caught a bit of the sniffles this weekend while I was down on the farm capturing a little man-on-goat love to send to my good pal Rush Limbaugh. Anything for puffy-faced, drug-addicted friend.

However, I do wish I wasn't about to fall into a Nyquil-induced coma so I could watch the results come in, but I have a feeling it's going to go a little something like this tonight.

Ron Paul: 0 wins. Counts the collective gold coins he keeps under his mattress.

Newt Gingrich: 1 win. Congratulates himself on an incredible victory, then prays to Reagan.

Rick Santorum: 3 wins. Googles himself repeatedly and ultimately masturbates to the definition.

Mitt Romney: 6 wins: Launders his magic underoos, then practices his "I don't hate poor people" smile in the mirror.

Happy Super Tuesday!

Friday, March 2, 2012

An Open Letter to Rush Limbaugh

Dear Mr. Limbaugh,

I want to start this off by letting you know that I'm a huge fan. Huge. I mean, any guy who can shove that much Oxycontin down his throat without accidentally killing himself is obviously a man of mental and physical fortitude.

Bravo, good friend, bravo.

But moving on, the main reason I'm writing to you is because I have heard that you have gotten yourself into a little bit of hot water with the left. Yesterday on your radio show you elaborated on your opinion about Sandra Fluke, the young Georgetown law student who testified to the House about contraception. You know, the one you called a slut.

You said: "So Miss Fluke, and the rest of you Feminazis, here's the deal! If we are going to pay for your contraceptives, and thus pay for you to have sex. We want something for it. We want you to post videos online so we can all watch."

Zing!!! You really showed the soon-to-be lawyer/penis-gobbler who's boss, Rushy! It's about time these contraceptive-using whores start paying to play. I've never been more on your side than now!

I mean, employers covering contraception is exactly the same thing as having taxpayers paying a woman for sex. Why don't these sex-addicted broads who don't want kids just have multiple abortions.

No, silly goose, not legal abortions, back-alley abortions, which is basically just a metal hanger and some alcohol swabs. That will show those skanks that their vaginas are strictly for spitting out babies--nine months after their husbands deflower them on their wedding night, of course.

But you and I both know that there will still be women who have nothing better to do than throw their tantalizing axe-wounds around on the government dime, and the only way they will learn that nothing is for free, is to take part in your "Porn for the Pill" program. (Hope you don't mind, but I decided to give your initiative a spiffy name.)

Using yesterday's outline, any woman who has ever thought about using contraception --ever-- will have to upload video of any sexual act they take part in to the internet in order to earn her birth control. But I was thinking, what if these women of loose morals send their videos DIRECTLY TO YOU?!

Genius, I know.

So, I am going to encourage all of the sexually-active women who read this to send their amateur porn to Mr. Limbaugh's email address, which you can find HERE!

If you don't have any of your own porn, feel free to send whatever porn you can find.

And remember, Mr. Limbaugh has spent a little time in jail, so don't be afraid to send him the weird stuff.

Watersports. Chicks with Dicks. Bestiality. Scat. Anything you've ever seen while on a trip to Tijuana, send to our man Rush.

Oh, and Mr. Limbaugh, don't worry, I won't rest until you are elbow deep in porn featuring people shitting on glass tables.

It's the only way us sluts will ever learn.

Love you bunches,