Tag Archives: Starbucks

Starschmucks Folly: VIA, the Instant New Coke

Currently Featured on the Huffington Post

You could put lipstick on a pig, but…

So it seems that Starbucks, the U.S. brewing behemoth, has decided to hawk an upscale version of Folger’s Crystals (currently gathering dust at the back of your out-of-touch nattering Nana’s pantry), but don’t you dare display your displeasure whilst within the immediate vicinity of one of their brainwashed baristas, or be prepared for a barrage of inane talking points and propaganda rivaling Liz Cheney’s blind backing of enhanced interrogation techniques. I’m not sure what remedial reprogramming retreat these poor part-timers were forced to attend, but it was apparently led by that murderous maenad Maryanne from True Blood or a direct descendent of Jim Jones ’cause there is zero room for dissension. Resistance is futile. You simply must drink the Kool-Aid… or neo-Sanka swill.

Is it somehow surprising that the franchise’s base of upscale liberal lefty latte-guzzling pseudo-intellects, who pride ourselves on being caffeination connoisseurs, might be a mite perturbed over the prospect of having a white-trash product pimped to us while trying to get our five o’clock fix and recharge our iPhones? We aren’t brewing up a batch of crystal meth in the bathroom units of our double-wides, looking for a quick-fix beverage to wash down our derelict dinner of Cheez-Whiz and Ritz Crackers for Cletis’s sake! Give it a rest; we don’t want to take your stupid taste test! We don’t care if this isn’t our grandfather’s instant coffee, it reminds us of our grandfather (who was last spotted hollering about health care at a town hall meeting due to a combination of dementia and Glenn Beck).

We have already agreed to pay three dollars for a cup of coffee. You’ve won. Don’t insult our intelligence by trying to get us to pledge allegiance to an inferior un-brewed commercialized commodity conceived by some snotty young marketing exec fresh out of grad school with plans for cutting losses by diversifying your elitist appeal to the general populace. Talk about watering down your “brand”. It was bad enough when you started in with that awful homogenized Pike’s Peak to compete with the Dunkin’ Donut’s demographic and their pansy palates. And let’s not forget those putrid pre-manufactured breakfast sandwiches (re-heated in those creepy gray cancer-causing ovens) prominently featured in your fly-ridden refrigerated display cases–yummers!

But for the coup de grace, it’s hard to believe your insolent insistence upon undermining the entire foundation of your existence: freshly ground, percolated C. Arabica that we pay a premium for you to prepare. Something authentic to be ingested and savored as we make our way through another impersonal, cyber-connected, pre-fabricated day. The churning in our stomachs, the burning in our bowels, the bing! bing! bing! of when it finally kicks in and everything is ok in the universe again. Gradual descent into despair transforms into rocketing ascent into possibility, hope and “what if?” Why would you want to dilute that?


Super Bowl Schmuper Bowl. I Don’t Give a Sh*t!!!

Previously Featured on the Huffington Post


Hey guess what? I didn’t watch the Super Bowl and I’m writing this before it has even aired so it was premeditated. That’s right Super Bowl XLIII: The Pittsburgh Steelers vs. The Arizona Cardinals means nada to me. I didn’t even know who the competing teams of brow ridged barbarians were until I Googled it, and frankly find it weird they use archaic numerals to describe a game whose average meathead fan thinks Sisyphus is a venereal disease.

Oh I admit organized sports have their ancient roots. Harkening back to ole Titus’s bloody Coliseum built to distract the rabble while the government had forceful carnal relations with their proletariat-backseat bumpkins. Perhaps an ample explanation for the re-election of our own George W Caligula, sans the sexiness, although in many cases appointing a horse would have been an upgrade. And at least back then you got to watch a good God-fearing Christian get mauled by a lion. It was truly life or death excitement. More bang for your Buck… or Dupondius. What’s the best we can hope for today a dislocated shoulder or hamstring or perhaps a fleeting ogle of the new Go Daddy.com slave girls. If you ask me I think Plaxico Burress’s most exciting play was off the field and in that nightclub.

I don’t care about organized sports, even if my hometown team is participating in the finale or whatever fancy name they give the coda (yes I drink Starbucks and read the NY Times!). Go ahead call me nerd, geek, commie, pinko, un-American, …gay! GAY! That’s one I got a lot growing up in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn in the late 80’s when other pre-pubescent street corner Goombahs (AKA my best friends) mercilessly mocked me for my lack of interest in playing or watching football, baseball, basketball or hockey. GAY! A phrase I still get called to this day when alpha males sniff out my disinterest and dissension towards the nucleus of their droll existences. GAY! OK. Let me ask this then: When did the epitome of masculinity become watching a bunch of sweaty well defined men, in tight form fitting uniforms, fondle a ball for hours, repeatedly patting each other on the ass and hugging, while you’re on the couch with your hand down your pants in a room packed full of dudes. Rainbow flags away, that is gay! Not that there is anything wrong with that!

It never ceases to amaze me how many lives meaninglessly revolve around a Game. A Game you are not even playing. Come on, every one of you knows one of those freaky fanatics that somehow find the need to pledge their allegiance to their team during any public gathering whatsoever. All the sudden out of nowhere you’ll hear “Let’s Go Yankees!” Completely regardless of where you are. “LETS GO YANKEES!!!” You know what…let’s not. For God’s sake this is a funeral. Have some compassion she was your mother! I mean, it’s an open casket; did you have to paint her face? And please take that giant pointer finger off her hand the formaldehyde is leaking out…ugh. It’s like psychologically they think they’re part of the team. Like they’re going with them. “LET’S GO YANKEES!!!” Um…you’re not going anywhere Joe. You’re a plumber! What are your big stats for the season huh? Your number of poopy pumps? Are you the Barry Bonds of poopy pumpin’? Have you been injecting yourself with anabolic steroids to enhance you poopy pump potential? Cause I’m looking at these poopy pump numbers and they don’t seem humanly possible. I think you’ve been poopy pumpin’ under the influence. I think we might have you testify before congress or at least put an asterisk by your name to protect the public posterity from your massively inflated poopy pump betrayal. And yes I know the Yankees are a baseball team and have absolutely nothing to do with the Super Bowl, but it’s all the same to me!

I personally think they should be allowed to take steroids. Hell juice them up even more so that they are ripping limbs off and decapitating heads on the sack, then maybe I’d watch. Or, hear me out, we shoot them up with heroin and let them aimlessly amble across the field. It’s really not that cruel. Think about it. They certainly get paid enough to go into a good rehab program whenever they decide to retire, which we can film and run on VH1 perhaps with Flava Flav heading the intervention. Comedy Gold. That’s entertainment I’d Tivo every week…if I could afford a Tivo. Can anybody out there get me a pitch meeting? I’m available to meet all day Sunday and Monday nights. Its not like I’m watching anything.

F*ck You Green Tea!!!



I love coffee. Strong. Black. Little sugar. The caffeinated confidence and mind racing illumination it stimulates as I slowly sip it, most likely in a Starbucks across from another Starbucks closest to my final destination. I love the churning of my stomach and the burning in my bowels. The Bing! Bing! Bing! of when it finally kicks in and everything is ok in the universe again. Gradual descent into despair transforms into rocketing ascent into possibility, hope and what if.

PLEASE STOP TELLING ME TO DRINK GREEN TEA. I don’t care what the benefits are. Stop blathering about antioxidants or the neutralization of free radicals. Will it get me high, cleanse my colon, make my mind race and my soul soar? Stop telling me about its tantalizing aroma and smooth flavor. Fag! I want the taste of scorched earth and burnt dirt. So my face winces, stomach clenches and hand clasps the table just to get it d-down. Equivalent to one third of the caffeine in a cup of coffee. Fuck you! This isn’t a children’s game were playing here you hippy dippy organic freak. Creativity is at stake. Ideas, concepts, hypotheses, rationalizations, solutions, direct inspiration from higher divine 
meta-consciousness…possible self-actualization and transcendence…Stop narrowing the gateway! 

And remember green tea comes from China. Communist China!! You just might want to ask yourself: Are you with us or against us? They already own most of our debt. Don’t let those Commie red bastards dictate our addictions…again!!! Remember opium. Sure it seemed so wondrous and delightful, at first, but the next thing you knew you were sucking dick in an alleyway in a straw hat and flip-flops. Coffee on the other hand comes from Africa, the birthplace of civilization. Coincidence? I think not. While anthropologists credit our distinctive cerebral cortex, and prehensile thumb to the evolution and ultimate domination of mankind, I believe they are leaving out one vital ingredient. Mainly C. arabica of the genus Coffea. Thats right, somewhere on the plains of the Serengeti an Australopithicus afarensis was munching on a bean we all love and know and BAM! Revelation! Stone tools! The wheel! Cave paintings! Culture! Civilization!