| (Dr.
Barista or How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Keep Starfuckin’
- Part 1)
Star*ucks
@ Orenco Station
Hillsboro, OR 2002
First off, let me tell you, everything you’ve ever heard
about this company is true. You might’ve thought it
was just bullshit, just another case of Fortune 500
envy, but no way. Every single piece of information ever leaked
to the public is one hundred percent on point. The people
who work here are rude. The coffee is completely over priced,
not to mention tasteless. And the so-called “community”
that revolves around one of these stores, was invented by
a team of marketing geniuses so stoned on their own hyperbole,
even they believe it.
Now,
what you don’t know is this: the company is a haven
for a repressed, pagan like sexuality. On the surface, of
course, things appear very streamlined, very organized. Underneath,
however, is another thing entirely.
What
I discovered was that every twenty-something-female behind
the counter is so ripe, so in need of a good tossing, their
panties sit in a constant state of agitated moisture; A slick
and ready existence like none other on the face of the earth.
It’s all right there…
Just below that green apron, just below the cute smile, below
the tight ponytail and the fashionable librarian glasses,
everything we take for granted is bubbling to the surface,
merely begging to be let out. That’s where I came in.
Shit, they don’t call it Starfucks, for nothing…
My outlook on the matter is obviously skewed. See, the company
thinks of these young ladies as their own appendages, extensions
of the machine. And, to some degree, they are right. But,
I knew from the beginning they were capable of much more.
It was simply up to me to get at the heart of the problem.
What I didn’t calculate, what I had no idea of knowing,
was the possibility of being emulated, copied, even stolen
from. The probability of being exposed as a cunny fiend, never
really occurred to me. Is that my fault? Probably.
I
mean, don’t get me wrong. I can appreciate
the actual tenderness of the organ. I just can’t get
enough of it, that’s all. That fucker who stole my style,
he was the monster, not me. Every move I made, every word
I uttered, every trendy little hard body I stuck it to; everything
I ever did in a Starfucks uniform was capitalized upon by
that punk-ass assistant and his scheming, ill-gotten ways.
But,
as usual I’m jumping ahead here. Sorry. Just remember
what’s at the heart of this thing. It’s an awful
tale on the subject of big business, fast marketing, convenient
locations, hard sex, large dollars, legal social addictions,
uncontrollable caffeine intake, long nights, longer days,
public nudity, loneliness, self realization, the desire to
let loose of all daily convictions, and, last but not least,
crumbly berry coffee cake. I can’t get enough of that
shit, either.
I
started like all new employees do, in coffee school. This
mandatory company propaganda in the form of “education”
is a two-week crash course of all things with caffeine. It’s
an easy way for the company to teach, brainwash, and hook
you all in one vicious swoop. The sixteen or so kids I shared
these lessons with took to it like sponges, eagerly absorbing
the violent spill of big-business piss water. It was kind
of fun, especially when I saw that the majority of my fellow
students weren’t fellows at all.
The
first three days of classes were simple history, nothing too
complicated. We got to know the chronicle of our saviors through
the magic of video, which, for some reason or another, reminded
me of the videos I watched in Driver’s Ed. I’ll
spare you the majority of the details with the abridged version
of the Starfuck’s Behind The Music. It’s really
not that interesting:
Wealthy white wannabe hippie types of Seattle really
got into coffee about twenty-five years ago. These well to
do whiteboy sons of well to do whiteboy fathers found that
other well to do hippie types like coffee, too. Soon everyone
likes coffee just like the well to do hippie types. Hippies
make millions and step out from under their family’s
shadows, create new American institution in the process. Pretty
simple.
The class was a competitive atmosphere, though I could never
really figure out why. The instructor, a man of feminine demeanor
and high speaking voice, would rarely get the chance to finish
asking a question before the hands would jump into the air,
begging for attention. The class would correct him if they
thought he gave us wrong information. And it seemed I was
always the last one to arrive at the start of the lesson,
and the first to leave at the conclusion.
It actually went by faster than I thought it would. We learned
brewing, grinding, sipping, cupping, growing, and steaming.
But all I could think of was fucking. I had begun to notice
the way girl’s titties would bounce when their hands
were thrust into the air. There was always a moment or two
of recoil. And, in a few days time, I was able to calculate
the number of bounces for each female. I made all these notations
in our “passports." These were given to us at the
start of class so we could record the particular coffees we
tasted, or for any random thoughts on the lesson. Here’s
a sample of what it was supposed to look like:
VARIETY: Kenya AA
DESCRIPTION: Bright, earthy, with a bold
citrus flavor.
LOCATE THE EXP. ON YOUR TONGUE: Rolls from
back to front.
THIS GOES BEST W/: Cream Cheese Danish and
Oatmeal Cookies
CREATE YOUR OWN DECRIPTION: Fruity, with
a muted hint of roses.
Now,
compare that to what my passport entries looked like:
VARIETY: Redhead in third row. Second from
the front.
DESCRIPTION: I’d say a decent B-Cup.
Left titty always gives additional bounce.
Heavier? Also, her thighs rub together when she walks. She
likes anal, in the very least.
LOCATE THE EXP. ON YOUR TONGUE: Dear Jesus,
please let me.
THIS GOES BEST WITH: A fifth of Jack, four
grams of Coke, pack of Camel Wides.
CREATE YOUR OWN DESCRIPTION: She looks like
a motel bitch. Never bring motel bitches to your own pad.
The
biggest revelations came a few days toward the end, when I
learned two very important things. One, Starfucks coffee tastes
unique because they burn it in the roasting process. Normally,
this level of heating is reserved only for coffees like the
common French roast. But, Starfucks just burns it all. The
variations are added in the cup, not in the plant. Basically,
every brewed cup of coffee tastes exactly the same, but is
packaged, named, and sold under the guise of different roasts.
Kind of like a car lot selling you a Ford Taurus with Cadillac
emblems. You swear it looks like a Ford, but it says
Cadillac.
The
second thing I learned was the red head in the third row does
take it up the ass. As a matter of fact, that’s the
ONLY place she takes it….
(To
Be Continued)
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