Monthly Archives: October 2009

Coffee Anus

Now I’m really going to blow your fucking mind.


If a Starbucks has nothing but coffee, and it falls over in a forest, is it really a Starbucks?

I don’t know.  But what I do know is that I have to be at work at 7 every morning this week.  It’s brutal enough due to the fact that it’s a wstarbucks-cup-cupcakeeek before the time changes, so getting up at 5am is  like getting up at 2am: just as dark and only a little less stupid.  And I know that it bothers me that the only espresso fill-up station on, near, or around my commute is an awful Starbucks in a grocery store next to the train (which is so weird to begin with: it’s like the train platform has a grocery tumor, and the fruits & vegetables section in the grocery store has a coffee shop tumor…some kind of creepy transportation/fresh food/greedy coffee chain fusion.  People sit in the loungey area with their laptops out, messing with their iPhones and trying really hard not to look like they’re in a filthy chain grocery store coffee chain shit bin.).  So anyway, the only point in going into one of these places is to get a fancy espresso drink.  If I wanted a damn $3 cup of coffee I can brew at home for a hundredth of the price, I’d be an idiot and someone should hit me in the face.  I want a Venti Somethingorother, dammit.  I’m tired and I need a shock to my brain stem.  So it’s really stupid when you walk up to the counter and give them your order and it takes a whole twenty minutes to say it (I believe I’ve mentioned that I’m an asshole), then they say “Our steamer’s broken.  So only coffee and tea.”

I’d like to know how Starbucks is a Starbucks without steaming capabilities.  I don’t see what now separates the grocery store Starbucks from a giant coffee-shitting anus.  I’ll get my shit coffee at home, thank you.

Cupcake Masterpiece Theater

So yeah.  I did a little search for “starbucks cupcakes” because I was going to point out that Starbucks really messed up when they stopped making the Vanilla Bean and Triple Chocolate cupcakes.  After they knocked that one out of the park, they decided to roll it back a little bit and start making these awful red velvet cupcakes, and I guess part of making them is leaving them out on the counter overnight, and also adding giant spoonfuls of baking powder and not mixing it in properly.  Those things are like biting into a rock that bleeds.  A far cry from the cuppycakes of old:


Uh huh. Right there. Yeah.

Upon my search, I found the first cupcake, other images of which you can find at the blog whose credit I have left on the stolen Starbucks cupcake picture.  If you can’t tell, I am not going to mention any names because I am about to make fun of her/him/it:

“As for the Starbuck cups, i did a google search to see what the Starbuck’s logo looked like since i never really studied it before. So after finding some great pictures, i begain the painstaking effort of slowly painting on the logos onto the cups.. which trust me is one of the toughest things I’ve ever done due to how tiny i had to make the Starbucks cup in order to fit it onto the cupcake. Trust me, painting on the logo onto a cup that is smaller than my thumb is not the easiest thing to do. I could feel my hand shaking with each stroke of my brush and i had to hold my breath every time i lay brush to cup. Whew!!”

Painstaking effort! It’s not easy!   Trust me!  TRUST ME!!!

Jesus Christ.  “…lay brush to cup”???  Was that a cupcake blog or a Hallmark family drama?  Oh, anyway, thank God Tammy got that Starbucks logo painted on all right.  I bet she was so tired after, she had to sit down on the sofa and have herself a whole glass of 79 cent grape soda from the dollar store.

Then you’re outta luck, PAL.

At work, I am sometimes forced to get coffee at this place in the basement cafeteria called “Java City!”  They’ve got this big round sign with a bunch of tall brown buildings on an orange background, I think that’s supposed to represent Java City With Exclamation Point.  I don’t know about you, but just the logo for Java City! makes me feel kind of like I might throw up from caffeine overdose.  Every time I walk by, I swear every fiber in my being gets really excited and then screams “OH NO” simultaneously, and hell, I’m surprised I haven’t suffered a seizure and collapsed on the floor in front of the Java City! kiosk simply because of their marketing.

There’s a Starbucks across campus (people around here say “across campus” to mean “in another building”…any building.  It could be the building next door.  It could be the adjoining building…which, in this case, it IS).  So I went there for a quad shot.  What do you know?  Their milk steamer was working just fine, they were all using it to blow steam up each other’s asses in their downtime.  They had a lot of downtime because the espresso machine was broken.  So yeah, I had to walk my ass (which is fast taking the shape of my desk chair) ALL THE WAY BACK ACROSS CAMPUS and hit up Java City!

Back at the Java City!, they keep their workers imprisoned in a 2×2 pen, which is equipped with everything in the world you’d need to make anyone sick.  The Java City! employees are not happy to see you because it means they have to take all their fingernails off so they can pull a shot.  They announce your drink order, get it wrong, then when you correct them they scream THAT’S WHAT I SAID over the sound of the steamer.  Then there’s that giant fake city looming over your head like it’s about to collapse on you.

So, another question: if everything you need to make floofy flavored coffee drinks can fit in a tiny booth, why the hell do we have Starbucks, hmmmmm?

Anyway.  I think Java City! would be the city you’d go to if you planned to die from a stress-related heart ailment.  Java City! would do it to you, for sure.

And if you sit in the Starbucks in the grocery store in the train station, sipping your latte, and you say into your iPhone “Yeah, I’m at the ‘Bucks…” then I hope you go find yourself clutching your chest in a Java City! sewer someday, pal.



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More things to add to the List of Dumb.


One thing that bothers me about Netflix is that they won’t let you let go of your past.  The only thing I’m allowed to do to my ex-boyfriend’s (of 3.5 years ago) queue, which was connected to my account while we lived together, is look at it.  I can’t remove anything from it.  I can’t delete him as a user.  I just have to sit there and stare at his inactive list of movies, grayed-out and awaiting a shipment that will never come.  I have to endure the constant error message that I will have to “speak with the account owner” if I want to make any changes to this user’s queue.  Netflix refuses to acknowledge the possibility that I could be the account owner, looking at the queue of one of my account users, and trying to get the fuck rid of it for good.

How do you explain to a current boyfriend that your ex-boyfriend’s movies are still in your Netflix account?  With his NAME at the top?  It’s obscene, this last bit of someone else’s life that refuses to be removed from yours.  I feel like I have some kind of cyst on my pancreas that modern medicine can’t reach, not even with lasers made by Jesus.

“Oh, ignore him, bunnyface.  And ignore his movie choices.  I never would have watched that stupid remake of King Kong with him.  Or that horrible movie with Clive Owen and Jennifer Aniston.  Shh…there there.  Ignore him and he’ll go away.”

Another thing that bothers me is that I don’t understand why the toilet in the women’s bathroom on this floor has to be auto-flush.  And why it has to be cranked up to the highest flush power, and the most sensitive motion detection. When you sit down to pee, you can’t move one inch, or the demon in the toilet will explode and spray water all over you.  When you stand up, you’ve got to run out the door as fast as your pants-around-your-ankles legs will carry you, because the spray reaches all around the stall, spattering walls, seat, and your clothes.  And as the stall door swings on its hinge, it sets off the flush at least two more times, causing everyone walking by to wonder just what the hell you’re trying to flush.

I don’t understand why the Ladies’ Only Couture and Luxury Goods Marketing Club thinks it’s appropriate to advertise their club meetings on the back of the stall door, now that we’re on the subject.  Luxury goods, indeed.  Now you can look at a low resolution image of a Fendi purse while you take a Jamie Lee Curtis, ladies.

I also don’t understand why so many business school students do not know how to write a check that will cash.  Or why so many of them pretend to be reading the library’s copy of The New York Times, then shove it under their leather folios and walk out the door all quick and crazy like they’re giving out free tits made of hamburger meat outside.  Really?  Stealing newspapers?  These are the douchebags who will be sticking their dicks in American finance pretty soon.  Every time one of them does it, I want to lean out the door and scream “GO AHEAD!  WE’VE GOT FULL TEXT ACCESS, MOTHERFUCKERRRRRRR!”

Why is the Dane Cook hairstyle still so popular with guys who are trying to look professional?  It’s like a foot tall, asshole.  I noticed that you bothered to run a comb straight up through all of the hair on the top of your head, but you didn’t bother to bring a fucking pen NOR a single piece of paper to your JOB INTERVIEW.  Which is why you’re standing at my desk, whining like a three year old who’s wanted nothing his whole life but a piece of paper from my printer.


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Friday Dance Party X

Special thanks to Kitty in a Cathouse.

I’m bout to go bang some copies out and file some sexytime.


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Glitter Turds & Sweet Tarts


I like my job for a lot of reasons, but mostly because I meet a lot of interesting people.  This university attracts students from all walks of life, from across the globe, which is pretty awesome if you like celebrities and foreign people, which I do!  And even though everybody’s got their panties in a bunch because Tom Hanks’ son is doing his undergrad here, I couldn’t care less because I just had the pleasure of meeting a very famous singer.  I swear I’d helped her find three books and two websites on finance interview preparation, none of which pleased her, before she revealed that she had, in fact, WON ASIAN IDOL TWO YEARS AGO.

She didn’t give me a chance to say, “Of course!  I knew I recognized you from somewhere!  You are the most talented Asian I know!  What are you doing at a business school in Illinois, U.S.A.?!”  She immediately and without any hesitation revealed to me that her passion is SINGING.  That evil Mommy-san and Daddy forced her to go to B-school, even after her triumphant victory over every other singing Asian in greater Asia, even after her tour of Asia with Asian Idol.  “It’s not like-a I even wanta to BE HERE,” she said, and slammed a book back onto the shelf in the wrong place.

Then she got mad that I wouldn’t let her use my computer to check her Gmail.  I guess you can’t have it all.

Minor Inconvenience

I was fifteen minutes to work today, which isn’t a big deal or anything.  My boss is pretty busy walking around the office telling everyone how hard I work, anyway, so she doesn’t usually notice or care when I step in a couple minutes late.  Unfortunately, there are some people who are really really put out of sorts when the train is late.

Today the train was late because of an accident involving a fall (or a jump, which is usually reported as a fall for a couple of days).  The point is that some poor jerk made contact with the filthy, wet, stinky, and highly electrified tracks in the gloom below the platform, which is a shitty way to start your morning.  The trains all had to share whatever tracks they could get, as power was shut off so the poor jerk could be peeled off the tracks and sent to the hospital to be pronounced one way or the other.  Everything was slow, and running behind, and basically not where anyone expected it to be.  When my train finally came, the stuttering conductor saw fit to let us all know that the reason for his lack of punctuality was “a accident involvin’ somebody jumpin’ on the tracks” downtown.  So naturally, the entire car erupted with gasps and everybody started telling everybody else exactly what they thought about mass transit suicide.  That’s when the lady behind me piped up to anyone who would listen:

“Why people always gotta kill theyselves durin’ rush hour? I know thangs is bad, but they ain’t THAT bad you cain’t wait until lunch time. Lawd.”

She proceeded to call all of her friends and let them know just how inconsiderate she thought it was to kill yourself during rush hour.  She revealed during all three of these phone calls (on her pink Razr with BabyPhat charms dangling from it) that she had actually found out about the suicide only a couple minutes after it had happened, on her alarm clock radio, which is when she decided to roll over and sleep a little longer because the trains were going to be “all messed up and shit anyway.”

Ahahahahha!  Total cunt.

It’s easy.

Basically all you’ve got to do is a Google image search for “cutest cupcakes ever.”

Are you serious?  You can't be.  You are, though.

Are you serious? You can't be. You are, though.

If you happen to be in Japan, you should do a Google image search for “cutest cupcakes ever,” only in Japanese.  And you’ll get this:


HIYOOOHHHHHH!!! Hihihihihihihihihihihihi!!!

Someday I will build a cupcake library, in which I will preserve one of every type of cupcake ever made, along with metadata to help future cupcake artists with their research.

I can do this kind of thing because we live on a fantastic planet, and it is covered with stuff that’s cute as shit.

God DAMN I wanna eat that tiny toast made of frosting SO BAD.

Feliz Naviblog

My best best friend friend Patrese has started a blog about how much she loves Christmas, and Christmastime, and pretty much all things Christmas-y.  I support her endeavor because I am a good friend (thanks, thank you…stop it!) and because starting in October it’s really cute to watch her get all ramped up for the birth of little baby Jesus and then celebrate it by buying every little baby Jesus she can find and gluing it to her front door.

OK well, so she hasn’t done that yet, but I think this might be the year.

Anyway, I think Patrese likes Christmas so much because her family always made it into a big sparkly happy soiree full of love and Sunday gravy. Which is so cute I want to poop glitter turds and Sweet Tarts!

I’m indifferent to Christmas because my stepdad celebrated by screaming at me to get the fuck out of the Goddamn tree before I fucking ruined everything.  Then my grandma took too many pills and had a meltdown because some bitch at church wore heels she didn’t agree with in the Christmas cantata, and my cousins cried while they watched us open our presents because my aunt loved God too much to buy things at the end of December.  Then they told us we’d probably be going to Hell because of the Play-Doh Snack Shop.

Shit.  If I’m going to Hell for a toy, it’d better fucking be the baby blue plastic four-door ’59 Caddy my slut of a Barbie used to roll around the living room in.  That would be worth it.


I finally figured out a way to spill Arizona green tea in my hair and make it look like I meant to do it.  Holy hell, I smell like the stairway to Heaven.  Or Arizona.

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