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December 7, 2007

Jim: Joe Abroad

Good coffee should be like my ex-boss’ heart: black as the depths of night and bitter as a jilted lover.

My ex-boss is dead now, and there I was, rotting away in a foreign jail, and all I could think about was coffee.

Oh, sure, the prison had tea. All the tea in China, except the prison wasn’t in China and I don’t care for tea.

Those foreigners acquitted me and, as a freed man, I found a little place that served coffee, but they insisted on adding steamed milk to it.

“Oh well,” I sighed, “better latte than never.”

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