by H.P. Seuss
I fucking love Starbucks. Say it proud! I fucking love Starbucks and what they have done to coffee drinking in this country. It's fucking great.
Gone are the days of tepid brown piss in a cup. Gone are the days of Nescafé. Fling open that door. Bowl up to the counter. Say: "Get me a venti extra-hot soya milk toffee-nut latte, no cream, extra sprinkles". Say it with conviction and say it with pride. Don't obfuscate. Don't pretend you don't understand the ordering system. Don't be all bashful and go "I just want a cup of coffee". (If you just want a cup of kawffee, you schmuck, you have two choices: filter or Americano. Don't say you don't know what filter coffee is. Americano is espresso plus however much hot water you ask for, you complete dickhead. If you're so offended by global captialism in action, ask for fair-trade coffee. Your friendly barista will be happy to oblige, you lily-livered liberal gimp).
Don't give me that jive about the nice Italian café round the corner. They had it coming. Go to Starbucks instead. Better still go to Starbucks in Borders. Don't give me that jazz about that charming second-hand book store across the street, either. Go to Borders, take whatever magazines you want off the shelves - Heat, Horse & Hound, Home Pornographer, I don't give a shit - and take them all to the in-store Starbucks, where you can peruse them to your heart's content for the price of an eggnog frappuccino. Fetch some books. Bone up on free markets. Read a poem. Meet a friend. Share a skinny choc-chip muffin. Dust it with nutmeg. Buy a pouch of House Blend to brew at home. Plug in your laptop. Turn Starbucks into your office - rent: one latte every two hours. Just don't, whatever you do, order the egg and bacon roll. It tastes like shit.