There’s nothing logical I can provide to account for it, really. Doubtless, it would be easier to blame the farmers who cull bean after tasty bean alongside Juan Valdéz out in the fields of Colombia, but I know it wouldn’t supply ample validation for my enjoyment of coffee. Starbucks, Seattle’s Best, Dunkin’ Doughnuts (I know they spell it the RETARD way, but that just makes everyone reading it and adopting it, well…retards. Let’s stick to one rant at a time, shall we?), Cinnabon, Baskin Robins, and all the other coffee-breeding billy goats out there can also, viably, be the target of my excuse for ample amounts of the yummy black stuff. But, deep down, I know they’re as culpable as the President of the United States is for making me like this stuff. By that I mean, well, Mr. President, you’re not to blame at all.
The rationale as to why I’ve become a hideous bald coffee-sucking rat can only be imputed to one thing, and that’s aliens.
Yep, I’ve considered it long and hard folks, and it’s the last piece of reasonable fodder that marries up with reason. Aliens.
It’s taken me the better part of a month to understand how I went my whole life without touching the ‘nasty black devil drink’ to growing to love the ‘creamy tanned liquid ambrosia’. It’s gotta be some sort of Visitor, you know? Like that funky 1980’s science fiction sitcom, V, with Michael Ironside where you never knew who your friend was because they looked human. Well, here’s the thing; that’s what I thought too! My own wife for the love of the gods! Yeah, she’s one of them! Well, I mean, it’s debatable (and trust me, as soon as she reads this, she’ll probably try and debate it – whatever. Anyway..) but it kinda makes a lot of sense.
During her visit back in July, we would often go out with friends. You know, the works – attend soirees, dress-up parties, game-nights, champagne flutes, tea sets, and the occasional ouija board session (the Parker Bros. version, of course). It was all subtle at first; it would be a café or a convenient store – something simple. She would offer me a sip. Just a sip. That’s how it started. “Just a sip,” she would say. I declined at first, but she kept at it. That’s the first reason I thought she wasn’t human. Why would she keep offering?! She wouldn’t offer again that same day, per se, but two or three days later. She must have assumed my human mind to be weak and forgetful. But then, I screwed up – I accepted!
And then, sadly, I was done. That was it. I would have one sip here, three sips there. Before I knew it, I was buying it straight from the vending machines, wanting to try every style, type, can, color, and blend. Soon after I had my first full cup of the black hazy dream – all by myself. Then…two cups a day. Which leads us to present moment. I don’t even care where I get it. I woke up this morning and ran down to my car, brush past the biting chill of the frost-bitten morning just so I could taste it – the cool love of day-old coffee.
I’m writing this now at ten o’clock (post meridiem) with thoughts of just one more cup before bed. It’s too late for me. I know that now. But, you may still have a chance. You must beware! They’re out there…infesting our world and our way of life. They look just like you and me, indiscernible with the naked eye. Not even if you have a pair of the special glasses that Rowdy Roddy Piper found in a trash can in the 1988 sci-fi thriller They Live will you be able to tell. Aliens, man. Get out while you can.