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June 5, 2005

Volume 2, Issue 5

You either need it, or want it.

Some can't make it through the day without it.

Some even get theirs from strangers on the street.

What is your coffee story?

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I wake to a world so cold it hurts. I crawl out of my sleeping bag, and emerge from the tent into a frozen hell.

I stagger over to the scoutmaster to get my C-rations. I then stumble over to the campfire and begin the process of warming up.

I open the box.

I pour my hot chocolate into my tin cup, mix it with the already boiling water, and prepare myself for the morning fun.

Each C-Ration came with packets of coffee and hot chocolate. I grew up in England.

"So what am I offered for my coffee guys?"

Posted by: Gahrie at June 5, 2005 7:07 AM · Permalink

When I first arrived in Colombia, I spoke exactly zero words of Spanish, so my first days working on a drilling rig there were interesting to say the least. I was working nights, and I really wanted some coffee. I asked the monoglot driller if I could have some coffee. He didn’t understand. So I tried “quiero un café”, which earned me a string of machine-gun Spanish. He saw my stupidity, filled a cup with ambrosia, pointed to it and said “Tinto”. I tried “un tinto, por favor” and was rewarded with a hot cup of Colombian coffee. Ah, Heaven.

Posted by: joe at June 5, 2005 8:42 AM · Permalink

The keys fumbled in his hands. Shit. He couldn’t afford another accident. The last one almost cost him everything.

Why didn’t he buy coffee on the way home yesterday? He wasn’t good in the morning without coffee. Maybe he should run to the Kwik-Mart first. Only that would put him behind schedule. They didn’t like when he was behind schedule.

He picked up the keys again. They slid into the lock. He put the handcuffs on and dragged her into the shed. Just like They wanted.

When it was done, he’d treat himself. No Kwik-Mart coffee. He was getting Starbucks.

Posted by: Lesley at June 5, 2005 9:41 AM · Permalink

“Ready, Uncle?”

Always the same. Up before dawn, rolling from bed and stumbling to the shower. The drummer in his head beat an unsteady cadence of pain while he waited for the hot water. The Lord made corn but the Devil taught folks how to squeeze it.

“Ready, Uncle?”

The shower helped some…but not much. His eyelids were too heavy to stay open so his hands made the coffee. Three scoops – nice and strong.

“Ready, Uncle?… Ready, Uncle?”

By his third cup, Remus was awake enough to ponder if today was the day he was going to kill Brer Bluebird.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 5, 2005 9:56 AM · Permalink

You boys are too young to remember but they used to put coffee into steel cans. Big, thick, heavy steel cans.

I was radioman on the Penelope, one of those B-17 flying fortresses. We sat on those steel coffee cans in case some Kraut below tried to shoot our balls off.

We took some damage over Bremerhaven and I’ll be damned if my coffee can didn’t fall right out through a hole in the fuselage. They told us later some SS colonel took it right on the skull.

Guess you could say that coffee was good to the last drop.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 5, 2005 10:52 AM · Permalink

"Here. Try this."

"I told you, I don't like coffee. It tastes like burned water."

"That's just because you haven't tried the right coffee!"

"Yeah, and let me guess. Your cat is different from the other cats. Almost like a dog."

"Just drink it."

"Ok..... Yup, tastes like burned water. Only with raspberry flavoring."

"You just don't like it because you hate me!"


"You're going to break up with me!"

"Where the fuck did this come from?"

"Then why don't you like coffee?"

It was at that moment that he realized maybe she didn't have such a bad idea.

Posted by: marc at June 5, 2005 11:08 AM · Permalink

He knew it had been a horrible performance.

Last night he had been magnificent, at the very top of his form, but this morning he hadn't been able to quite get it together. A quick glance at his watch confirmed it - less than five minutes had passed.

The look of disappointment on her face said it all. He rolled out of bed and started getting dressed, apologizing profusely, watching her roll back over and ignore him.

Damnit! Why did she have to wake up so damned horny?

Screw it. He wasn't worth a fuck in the morning without his coffee.

Posted by: hnumpah at June 5, 2005 11:49 AM · Permalink

"You okay, sir?"

He stared at the barista with glassy eyes and took another sip.


He slumped against the counter and slid to the floor, his hands shaking. The small cup he'd been holding fell beside him, the viscid sludge within oozing onto the tiles.

"Call 911!"

A woman rushed over. "I'm a doctor," she said, loosening his tie. His face was the color of crema. She knew instantly: shock.

"Get a blanket!" she shouted.

She checked his vitals. "His metabolism's collapsed," she murmured. "He just ... couldn't process it."

"Another one," said the barista, his eyes glistening. "Fucking Chantico."

Posted by: Allah at June 5, 2005 8:38 PM · Permalink

Check before you post!