The Starbucks By My House
Benito Mussolini runs the Starbucks by my house. If that’s not Mussolini then it’s a goddamn angry battle bear dressed as Mussolini wearing a black apron.
It’s imperative that you know exactly what you’re ordering before you touch the door handle. If you don’t pre-game in the parking lot beforehand he will know it the minute you walk through the door. Indecision is to Mussolini Barista as fear is to bees. You also need to understand the barista language and say things in the right order.
A typical morning at my Starbucks:
MurderBeast: What can I start for you sir?
Customer1: I..uh..well, maybe a..
MurderBeast: fuck you! Don’t come to my workplace and be a pussy. Do I come down to your office and stand around crying all day? Back of the line, Mary!! You better hope you grow a pair of stones before you get back up here again.
MurderBeast: Ma’am, what can I start for you today?
Customer2: I’d like a cinnamon dolce latte with a sprinkle of…
MurderBeast: …a sprinkle of shut the hell up? What size you ignorant whore? <pounding shoe on counter with each step> FIRST you tell me if it’s iced, THEN you tell me the size, THEN you tell me the drink, FINALLY you tell me any special instructions or add-ons. For crissakes, I’ve seen you here before. This isn’t new. Go sit in the timeout chair until you figure it out.
MurderBeast: Sir, what can we do for you this morning?
Me: Venti coffee…please…sir.
I’m sure the other drinks at Starbucks are wonderful. I’ve seen people at other Starbucks enjoying blended frappacinos made with solid gold and liquid cocaine while they lounge in a sunny meadow and play hide-n-go-seek with unicorns. It looks heavenly. But I’ll never know because by the time I step over the carcasses of those that have tried and failed before me I’m too scared to do anything but order a giant ass coffee; the only order I have memorized well enough to say through my wild eyed terror.
