Coffee is so gross. I don’t understand how people grasp complex flavors within this hideous brown sludge. And I’m talking about ostensibly good coffee here, brewed in an upscale coffeehouse by some guy with more tattoos than skin who takes much greater pride in brewing the perfect cuppa than providing middling to decent customer service. This is the kind of coffee that’s grown in a treasured rainforest preserve by free trade farmers who pick each individual bean by hand so that the husk can be infused with the essential finger oils of the honest peoples of the earth. This is the kind of coffee that you brag about, that you tell your stupid hipster neighbors that you drink exclusively, that you save the sticker on the bag from and slap it square on your bumper so that soccer mom who just passed you on the freeway knows that you’re a stone cold coffee connoisseur.
This coffee is so good, you think, I’ll shit my pants.
So we’re on the same page now. This isn’t a cup of coffee I brewed in a Tupperware tub with used underwear as a filter and Diet Mountain Dew in place of water. I didn’t take a cup full of mud, press in a few caffeine pills, and spoon the sludge down my aching throat. This coffee, this very cup that I am drinking right now, is not the aftereffects of an enema.
But it tastes like it.
This coffee tastes like it hates me. This coffee tastes like it hates everyone, actually, all the people in this stupid coffeehouse, in this pointless town, in this godforsaken state, in this listless nation, in this hot brown ball that we call Earth. It is a fucking pissed off cup of joe and it’s taking it’s anger out on my taste buds.
This coffee tastes like the devil soiled his trousers.
This coffee tastes like someone took a hundred-year-old Yellowstone picnic table, ground it up with the leavings of a lead mine, and heated it up in Wilt Chamberlain’s love nest.
This coffee tastes like it’s good friends with Hitler.
This coffee tastes like it was left inside the small intestine of a lamprey, which was devoured by a pregnant whale shark, which was later served up to a group of Japanese businessman, who ultimately melted in a horrible chemical fire.
This coffee tastes like that chemical fire.
This coffee tastes like I haven’t had sex in a really long time and, honestly, it’s starting to get to me, even though I thought I was fine on my own, really pretty okay just rocking out bachelor style, I can’t stop thinking about how I’m in my twenties and this is my prime, man, this is when I should be swangin that dick Big Willy style but I’m not, and maybe it’s really a question of why aren’t I doing that, what’s going on in my head that’s holding me back, am I broken, did I break somewhere along the line, Jesus Christ what is wrong with me
This coffee tastes like a swamp at low tide.
This coffee tastes like it’s cauterizing my insides.
This coffee tastes like a hundred thousand dead dogs, torn open and roasting in the heat of the Las Vegas strip while grandmas and whores and bachelor parties gamble away their life savings in air conditioned Hell.
This coffee tastes like my own mortality, ruthlessly served up to me on a cold steel tray.