Friday, March 18, 2011

I Don't Even Know Who You Are Anymore

The fact that you're shunning coffee, Bub, is problematic for me on multiple levels.  First off, you're always whining about how tired you are (you know, from all that stuff you're doing).  I stand here and offer you the best legal solution money can buy, and you reject me harder than Audra Smith in 9th grade.  And that was a real crusher.  

Secondly, you're offending my sense of taste.  This is DAMN good coffee, in fact, it's my favorite blend from Sam the Magic Coffee Man.  You'd be hard-pressed to find a finer cup of java, especially given your lack of money and mobility.  I mean, even if you somehow made it to the store, then what?

     SMCM:  So do you prefer lighter blends, darker blends?  Perhaps flavored coffee?
     B:  Haaaaarrrrrr.  Herrrrr.
     SMCM:  I see.  In that case, I recommend the Brazilian Peaberry.  Or the Ethiopian      Burundi.
     B:  Waaaaawwwwa.  (Untranslatable)  Oooooooh.  Awwahhh.
     SMCM:  2 pounds of each, great.  Cash or credit?
     B:  Uhhhhhhhhhwuuuh.  
     SMCM:  No, I do not wish to trade for a used fikey.  Please leave now.

Wouldn't work at all, would it?  But what really upsets me is the passion with which you reject my offering.  That face tells me you not only hate everything about French-pressed coffee, but also everything about the man behind the pot.  They're called feelings, Bub.  And you're stepping on them like a Riverdance of mean.

Now I'm not exactly Miss Manners, but when someone offers you something to eat or drink (or shove in your mouth) you have two options:  Graciously accept or regretfully decline.  Which one does this face fall under?  I didn't think so.  More importantly, when Daddy offers you something, let's just stick to option A and cut the crap, shall we?  

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